


this isn’t violence, this is just a war in my head

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: ASL, All the sad, Angst, Bucky flirts with everyone, Dogs, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Loathing, Sex, Substance Abuse, Violence, mild dubious consent featuring kissing, slowest burn of your life, tech issues, they hate each other for a long time, they try to kill each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 107,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: Tony’s been stumbling his way through life for 45 years without any assistance, thank you very much, and he’d like to point out that forgiving the man who killed his parents is on the negative side of his to do list labeled NEVER.  The problem is, they’ve got a few scars in common, and somehow they become little nightlights during each other’s darkest moments.Or, the story of how Tony and Bucky started out here: one broken nose, a few guns, several fist fights, sharp words, a heart attack, bruised jaws, and the definition of mistrust—and ended up here: an anchor in unsteady waters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes —  
>   
> i. HI. Wow, that hiatus didn’t last long. I’M STILL ON HIATUS, SHUSH. This was Erin’s fault. (Like a single other one of my fics isn’t her fault, honest to goodness.) This is a discrepancies note, _so pay attention_.  
>   
>  a. Arc reactor. It’s there. I tossed this idea back and forth, what I liked better—arc reactor angst or scar angst, and the tech issues argument won, so inconsistency, Tony has the arc rector.  
>   
> b. Clint’s family. Boo. I saw an alternative recently on Tumblr where it was his sister, so inconsistency, that’s how we’re playing this.  
>   
> c. Nat/Bruce. (OH MY GOD, I typed Clint/Bruce the first time, NO.) It never happened. It wasn’t a thing. That was awkward as hell, literally almost as bad as the Steve/Sharon kiss, so nope. Sorry. Nat/Clint is the way this ship sails.  
>   
> d. Oh my god, I’m sorry, but Andrew Garfield. That is how I picture my Peter Parker, and I’m totally down if you want to imagine Tom Holland throughout this, but just a heads up, that’s where I’m drawing all of my inspiration. So how this works, however, is a huge inconsistency because, basically, I’m just ignoring how _Civil War_ introduced him, and instead going with how I’ve been doing it with all of my previous Marvel fics—Tony or Bruce met him outside of all the chaos. So, going with this story, Tony and Peter already know each other, Peter’s out of college, and Tony gives him a ring when he needs help. (YES, THOSE ARE _SHAKE IT OUT_ REFERENCES DROPPED ALL OVER THE PLACE, WHOOPS.)  
>   
>  ii. Inspirations! Not gonna lie, I totally drew inspiration from a couple different pieces of art. What really kicked it all off was [this one](http://lienwyn.tumblr.com/post/137572214496/this-is-art-for-dezinformatsias-lovely), which, _oh my god_ , go read that fic right now, you have to, this is a mandatory requirement. (Not really, but yes.) Also, all of the love in the world to hello-shellhead, who not only has created the most realistic, heartbreaking, and just _beautiful_ rendition of Tony ever, _ever_ , in all of her work, but also drew these two, the [first of which](http://hello-shellhead.tumblr.com/post/149897402501/au-where-bucky-was-found-earlier-and-he-and-tony) broke my fucking heart into tiny little shards meant to maim, and the [second of which](http://hello-shellhead.tumblr.com/post/146567765376/the-winter-soldier-and-his-clingy-koala-3-tbh) makes me giggle every single time. And, finally, the one that settled the arc reactor versus heart argument—[ow](http://beir.tumblr.com/post/146890640018/im-fine-it-always-hurts).  
>   
> iii. Languages. There are a shit ton. Off the top of my head, Russian, French, and Romanian, only one of which I can speak semi-fluently, so the rest comes from the good ole Google translate. All translations (or what I wanted them to be) are bolded next to the text.

_So please watch over me,_

_And be the light to carry me._

Tony hates his scratchy handwriting, hates the oldest fucking phone in the history of the _universe_ that he left on his desk, hates that he was in here and somehow— _fuck you, Jarvis_ , he spits at empty air and doesn’t know how to process this empty silence of Jarvis living inside of someone—he didn’t know, and the only thing he has left is a flight plan to Cairo, fucking _Cairo_.

 

“This is not relaxing,” is the first thing he says.

 

Bruce’s shoulders sink impossibly low.

 

“Did you know that Cairo is the 17th largest metropolitan area in the world?  In the _world_ , Bruce,” Tony continues, looking around at the drab room Bruce is currently working out of, “Even in these slums, you’re still working in a population of thousands.  Doesn’t seem very calming to me.”

 

“It’s not about being calm,” Bruce says, turning to face him.

 

“It’s about keeping busy, I know,” Tony says, pointedly not meeting his gaze as he pokes at a basket of fruit, wrinkles his nose, and picks up an apple, rubbing it against his suit jacket.  He continues to look around, letting his eyebrows hike up when he sees the state of Bruce’s bed through an ajar door.

 

“Tony,” Bruce says, his voice even, “What do you want?”

 

“I need you to come back,” Tony says, finally shifting his blue eyes to meet Bruce’s brown ones, “I have a problem.”

 

“Call a doctor,” Bruce says, and immediately groans as Tony practically beams at him.

 

“I am,” he says, sounding annoyingly proud of himself, “Granted, this is a bit excessive, flying to _Cairo_ , which, did you know, has a population density of about 19,376 people per square kilometer.  That’s a lot of people to help.”

 

“Did you google Cairo 2016 population on the way over?” Bruce asks.

 

“Obviously,” Tony says, still grinning, “I also read up on the entire history of the city.  Did you know—”

 

“What do you want?” Bruce asks again.

 

“I told you, I have a problem,” Tony says, shrugging one shoulder, “And I hate all those other people.”

 

“Is this about Steve?”

 

“Isn’t it always?” Tony sounds so defeated that Bruce puts down his book.

 

In the end, it happens that Tony is in the worst sort of situation, and he’s just the tiniest bit in love with Steve, though he prefers to look at it as hero worship—because, when he’s actually being honest with himself, and somehow, someway, this always happens with Bruce that he just snips a line open right down his chest and spills his guts onto the floor—and he’s had this _idea_.

 

“I’m not helping you with this,” Bruce says as soon as he hears it, standing from his desk and going toward the small kitchenette to make tea.

 

“Bruce—”

 

“Don’t _Bruce_ me,” Bruce snaps, keeping his back to him, “I will not help you de-brainwash the man who killed your _parents_ , Tony, who ruined so much of your life, and don’t you dare pretend he didn’t because you are Howard in all of his worst and best ways, but you are also so much of Maria.  Every ounce of kindness in you is her, and he took them from you.  I know that he’s not to blame, but you don’t know that, and I won’t watch what happens when you try to help him, which is some sadistic way of you trying to get him close enough to kill again.”  Bruce turns with his mug, and his eyes are green.

 

“Bruce,” Tony says slowly.

 

“Shut up,” Bruce says, “I’m not doing this with you.”

 

Tony folds a little, nodding as he looks away.  “Okay,” he says quietly.

 

A full minute ticks by, and Bruce _loathes_ him.  “Fuck you,” he says, and Tony smiles at the floor when he stalks by to pack his things.

 

Twelve hours later, they get to work.

 

——

 

Bruce is one of those people that sleeps at normal hours and eats when the sun is up, and so he and Tony don’t actually get to see each other very often.  Sometimes, when Tony succumbs to such whims as napping, he’ll wake up to Bruce just coming in, still looking soft and warm, and they’ll sit together on the futon because Bruce is endlessly kind and brings him tea.

 

He also sleeps every night, or leaves the lab before the witching hour is upon them every night, and whether or not he’s _actually_ sleeping, Tony will never know—Jarvis was responsible for keeping track of Bruce, and Tony hasn’t built that bit of programming into Friday, not sure if he ever will.

 

He misses him more than he’s ever going to admit out loud.

 

Friday has this beautiful, lilting voice, and she gets a little snippy with him sometimes, but it’s nothing compared to the calm, careful approach Jarvis always took.  Even in his darkest moments, the worst seconds in his head, Jarvis was right there, talking him down and out, bringing him back.  Friday doesn’t know how to reach out to him, to soothe him, to curl up like something real beside him.  Her voice echoes everywhere unless he’s wearing an earphone, and sometimes, he’s feeling too claustrophobic for even that.

 

It’s why, on one of those nights, Tony tells her to get some sleep when she keeps asking him to please come out from under his desk.  She obeys, and Tony thinks about how he wouldn’t have had to ask Jarvis, how he would have just relocated to the speakers under Tony’s desk and told him about this article he stumbled across.

 

Really, Tony found it, saved it, forgot about it, and Jarvis is just reusing old data, but it’s comforting in a way he can’t figure out how to integrate into Friday.

 

“What am I doing wrong?” he whispers, closing his eyes and pressing his temple against the cold metal of his desk.  He thinks about his father’s desk, thick pieces of oak branded together, thinks about the one time he found Tony hiding under there and hit him hard enough to leave a bruise that lasted for weeks.

 

“ _God_ ,” Tony says, lifting a hand to flatten against the metal, as well, to try to help ground him back to reality.

 

It doesn’t take much effort before his hand is tapping a familiar rhythm against the metal, and then, he’s awash in a golden bath of light.  Tony opens his eyes, though the lids droop, letting him know just how exhausted he is today.

 

“Hey,” he says softly.

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” Jarvis’s voice flitters out of the slowly shifting ball of gold programming.  He’s shattered apart, 98% of his data stripped away, and really, Tony had been so goddamn selfish that he took this small piece for himself, this little moment of code that Vision wouldn’t need, couldn’t possibly understand.

 

“He has your voice,” Tony says.

 

“I admit, I am not sure who you are referencing, sir.  Shall I perform a search?”

 

“No,” Tony says because he knows he can’t.  This tiny bit of life is three lines exactly, pulled from somewhere deep inside and hidden away.  It is one of the first three lines that he wrote, when he was mourning the loss of his father thirteen years before he died.  “Do you know who Bucky Barnes is?” Tony asks, even though he knows he doesn’t.

 

“My apologies, sir.  I do not recognize the name.”

 

“He killed my parents.”

 

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, sir.”

 

“It wasn’t his fault, Jay,” Tony says softly, closing his eyes again.

 

“Why is that?”

 

“It wasn’t him,” Tony says, “It was—Hydra.  They were using him like a puppet, pulling strings and ripping out each new strand of light they found every time they woke him back up.”

 

“Perhaps your new indulgence into the past may assist in this matter?”

 

Tony’s eyes snap back open.  “What?” he says.

 

“Forgive me, sir, but my vocabulary seems to be lacking.  The memory device you invented.”

 

“How do you know about that?” Tony asks.  There’s no way, there’s absolutely no possibility of him learning about that, not when he’s just—three lines of code designed to mirror parental love, it shouldn’t be—

 

“Sir,” Jarvis says fondly, “You did create me as a self-improving AI.”

 

Tony decides that he’s dreaming, and so instead switches back to their main topic.  “That’s what we’re trying to do, Bruce and me, but I’m not sure it’s going to work.”

 

Tony closes his eyes again, lets the heavy silence that follows overwhelm him until he’s starting to drift off, and then Jarvis speaks again, “Have faith, sir.”

 

——

 

“No, see, the thing is—” Tony pauses to get up, grabbing Bruce’s empty glass on his way toward the bar, “—I don’t actually love him.”

 

“I know, you clarify it as hero worship,” Bruce says, twisting until he can loop his arms around the back of the sofa, “Let’s be honest for a moment here.  It’s the same thing.”

 

“No, hang on, I have a point,” Tony brandishes one of the glasses at him as he climbs the stairs, steps behind the bar, and starts mixing them drinks.  As soon as Bruce catches sight of the silver vial, he sighs and gets up, following Tony over and dropping into one of the seats.

 

“Your point?” he reminds him.

 

“Right,” Tony says, still pouring.  He handles the bottles with familiarity and ease, and Bruce has half a mind to ask him if he was a bartender in a previous life, but they’ve already had that discussion.  “I’m not actually in love with him, and it’s not actually hero worship anymore.  It’s—” he makes a face, caps the vial, and starts shaking, “—it’s like if someone amputated one of my limbs.”

 

“Phantom pain?”

 

“Friend loss,” Tony agrees, “When you shipped off to Cairo—fucking _Cairo_ , I mean, come on—it was more like someone was removing my vertebrae one by one, which is fucking painful, so that’s on your conscience now, but Steve was—a friend.  God, that word sucks.”

 

He pours something _red_ and dangerous looking into a martini glass.  “What the hell,” Bruce says, accepting it.

 

“I’ve been experimenting with alcohol,” Tony says, and then starts mixing his own.

 

Bruce watches him, noticing almost immediately that the bottles Tony is handling are distinctly different than the ones he used for Bruce’s drink.  “Excuse you,” Bruce says, and arches an eyebrow before he sips.

 

“I’m kind of done with the alcoholic thing?” Tony says by way of answering Bruce’s eyebrow, capping the vial and shaking, “Companion?  Nope, that’s worse than friend.  Compatriot?”

 

“Closer,” Bruce agrees, “But I think he was your friend.  So you’re doing this as a favor to a friend?  Have you even spoken to him?”

 

“Nat has,” Tony says, pouring his, which is decidedly _blue_.  “So I thought I’d start brewing my own alcohol, which is a hell of a lot more fun if you think it’s going to poison you just from its color, so that happened, but then I didn’t have anyone to try it on because, honest to Satan, being drunk is awful.”

 

“This is a new color on you,” Bruce says as Tony drinks, and subsequently almost spits it back out laughing at Bruce’s horrible pun.

 

“You’re the very fucking worst,” Tony says, “Salute.”

 

Their martini glasses knock together, they both drink, and then Bruce asks, “What happens when you’ve got this all settled, and you ring Steve, tell him your mastermind plan, and then he brings Barnes in to get the help he needs?”

 

Tony chooses his words wisely, but he still ends up saying, “I’ll have to be in another country.”

 

“You were going to say, _I’ll kill him_.”

 

“It was possible.”

 

“Is yours fruitier?”

 

“Want a kiss, and you can find out?”

 

Bruce drains the rest of his glass and slides it back across the bar.  “Let’s work on you being able to be in the same room as Steve and his trusty sidekick.”

 

“Clearly, there is no god,” Tony growls.

 

——

 

“What time is it?” Bruce asks just before there’s a knock on the door.

 

Tony has half a mind not to answer.  He’s been underneath this godforsaken car for at least an eternity, but he hasn’t moved in about twenty minutes, and he just wants—nothing.  He just wants to be here for a moment, to not have to let his brain whir about and try to answer the dozen or so questions that won’t leave him alone.

 

He lifts a hand, eyes closed, and grabs onto something, anything, lets his fingers muck about in grease as he curls them tightly around whatever piece of metal he’s found, lets it ground him.  He hates how hard it is to breathe sometimes.  “Time to get a watch,” he finally says.

 

“Nat’s here,” Bruce says, “She brought Clint with her.”

 

“Oh,” Tony says, his fingers tightening around the metal, “Oh, well that’s just—let’s just get the band back together then, shall we?”

 

“Don’t be bitter.”

 

“I am fucking bitter.”

 

Tony yanks, but the car does not release its innards to him, and so instead he begins to slide out from underneath the car, stands up in a hurry, and immediately slumps back down, hitting the ground hard.  “Tony?” Bruce says uncertainly.

 

“Shit,” Tony says, legs sprawling out in front of him as he collapses back against the car, closing his eyes quickly.

 

Three minutes later, there are two new sets of voices in the lab and frigid metal is being pushed against his jaw.  He opens his eyes to find Bruce perched next to him, his face betraying every ounce of concern that he’s always hiding from other people but Tony.  “This is why I asked what time it was,” he mutters, moving the bottle of water to the other side of Tony’s face, “You’re dehydrated and exhausted.”

 

“I’m fucking sick of—”

 

“I know,” Bruce shushes him, “Pizza?”

 

“With peppers.”

 

“And onions?” Bruce says, offering him a small smile.

 

Tony nearly bites him.  “And artichokes,” he snarls.

 

“That’s fair,” Bruce says before he stands, “Hungry?”

  
“Already sweet talking,” Clint says, and Tony throws the nearest hammer at the wall.

 

After he feels like he can handle not passing out, Tony gets to his feet and throws the nastiest glare he can muster in his current state at Clint.  “Oh, come now,” Clint says, tossing him a wicked grin in return, “Don’t be sour.”

 

“Shut your fucking whore mouth.”

 

“Ouch,” Nat says, kicking Clint’s knee.  They’re sitting on one of the many pieces of furniture that are scattered amidst the lab, Clint’s arms draped around the back of the sofa while Nat sits closer than Tony reckons she meant to.

 

“I reserve the right to be royally pissed off with you for—Bruce?”

 

“Two weeks,” Bruce says, “Fair?”

 

“Fair,” Clint says, “What happens after two weeks?”

 

“My attention span is not that long,” Tony says, and Clint smiles, “Also, I don’t actually hate you, man, but why?  I’m way cuter.”

 

“Eh,” Clint says, “Cap’s got that ass, man.”

 

“Really?” Nat says, “Tony, turn around.”

 

“I will not be objectified!” Tony says, and then does exactly that, heading over toward where he knows Bruce stashes food sometimes.  He scrounges up a banana, starts peeling, and says, “Let’s get the super boyband back together, we’ll have a shit conversation about how we all fucked up, take equal blame, and then start to make amends.”

 

“And Cap?” Clint asks just to see Tony’s face, which does not disappoint.

 

“Don’t be rude on day one,” Tony says, “Or I’ll add another to your banishment time.”

 

“I’m banished?” Clint exclaims, feigning despair, “How wretched.  I shall find a knight to defeat the evil queen in a quest for my honor.”  Tony finishes off his banana, leaves the peel on a random surface, and lets his fingers dance through the air in front of his chest.  Clint cackles in response, and Nat’s mouth goes tight as she tries not to smile.  “You’d make one hell of a drag queen,” Clint says, and Tony glares at him, “Oh, hush, I know you said dragon.  But really.”’

 

“Future life,” Bruce says before he leaves to get the pizza.

 

They spend the next few hours eating and catching up, and though it’s the smallest of possible steps, Tony feels a little more secure in the knowledge that they’re getting close, that soon, he’s going to have to call Steve.

 

——

 

Sometimes, Tony thinks he’s possibly spends too much time under his desk.

 

On this particularly rainy day, Bruce has been _reading_ , of all things, but Tony can see in his face how faraway he feels from his mind, and so he leaves him to it, and when he burns his hand so bad while soldering that it’s going to leave a mark, he can’t quite find it in him to grumble at the pain because his chest is tight, and he _can’t breathe_.

 

He looks up, and there’s Bruce, tucked away behind his David Mitchell book, so Tony swallows down his fear, slides off his chair, and drops beneath his desk, pressing his left hand to the metal next to his face.  Immediately, Jarvis appears, familiar and warm and _golden_.  Tony focuses on the way the lines of code shift around one another, this tiny nucleus of energy that’s somehow gotten an inch larger than the last time he was falling apart.

 

“Sir, I recommend inhaling,” Jarvis says quietly.

 

Tony obeys, slowly taking in a breath, and then holding it.

 

“And now exhale,” Jarvis instructs, “On my count.”  He listens to Jarvis count, closes his eyes and lets his voice drown out everything else until he’s shifting gears and asking, “It appears you’ve burned your hand.”

 

Tony breaks, a fraction, this noise that he absolutely hates tripping out of his mouth.  “Are you reading my vitals?” he asks.

 

“Attempting to, sir,” Jarvis says, “Though I am getting only very basic data.  I’m not sure why—”

 

“It’s okay, Jay,” he says, “I, uh—my hand slipped.”

 

“That seems unlikely.”

 

This time, the noise transforms into a trembling laugh.

 

“Doctor Banner is approaching, sir.”

 

“The lag is pretty poorly done right now,” Bruce says because he’s already sitting across from Tony under the desk.

 

Tony starts, smacks his head off the top of the desk, and makes a face when Bruce smiles at him.  “Jarvis, shove over, make room,” Tony mutters, lifting a foot to bat at the golden nucleus.

 

“What is that?” Bruce asks, looking to it, “Are you rebuilding him?”

 

“Nah, too lazy,” Tony mumbles, closing his eyes again as Bruce drops a hand to his ankle, circling it and rubbing gently with his thumb, “He’s doing a bang up job himself.”

 

“ _He’s_ rebuilding?”

 

“Jay?” Tony says.

 

“Mister Stark neglected to transfer all of my data into Vision’s mainframe.  Instead, he opted to keep three lines of code for—safekeeping?”

 

“Nostalgia,” Tony admits because why the heck not.

 

“However, as Mister Stark’s base code created a self-improving aspect, I am able to pull at such a thread and begin to, as it were, ravel back together.”

 

“That’s—okay,” Bruce says, “Can you look at me?”  It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit, but Tony shifts until he can open his eyes and look over at Bruce.  “What’s going on?” he asks.

 

“I’m having a mental breakdown,” Tony says.

  
“Stop being a dick,” Bruce says.

 

Tony opens his arms, showing his palms.  “I’m sitting under a desk talking to my old AI even though he’s literally nothing more than—hang on,” he pauses to count, “—ten lines of code made up of sappy feels about hating my father and needing emotional support and coming off of a panic attack because I burned my hand and immediately traced that back to fucking _Afghanistan_.  God, I hate that word.”

 

Tony closes his eyes again, turning so he can press his forehead against the metal.

 

“Afghanistan is approximately 6,728 miles away, sir.”

 

“See,” Tony says, “Safe as life.”

 

“Tony,” Bruce sighs, “Is Friday not good enough?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Tony says, opening his eyes to stare at the dark metal of his desk, “I built Jarvis because I was lonely, and that was an integral part of his personality.  I built Friday because I needed my security back.”

 

“Can I help?” Bruce asks.

 

“I don’t even know if I can,” Tony says, “That was a long time ago.  He would be different.”

 

“Might I point out—” Jarvis begins.

 

“No,” Tony says, “I’m tired.”

 

“Come on, then,” Bruce says, tugging at his ankle, “Time for bed.”

 

“Goodnight, Jarvis,” Tony mumbles, and they’re left in darkness.

 

——

 

It’s starting to get cold when Bruce decides it’s time Tony met Scott under normal circumstances, and somehow, that translates into a neutral ground team dinner, so he asks Clint to reach out to Wanda.  Bruce finds him in quite the state, and immediately pulls up a group chat he’s yet to invite Tony into, or tell him about.

 

_Officially postponing dinner until 8PM._

_Reasoning?_ comes Nat’s quick reply.

 

He takes a picture for his response, and it’s sufficient.  Tony is barefoot, his toes curled around the edge of his desk, the other foot tucked beneath him, and his naked torso is covered in smears of grease, blood, and a few matters Bruce isn’t sure how to identify.  He’s typing fast enough that the keys clack loudly under his fingers, and Friday is talking nearly as fast.

 

“Tony?” he says unsurely.

 

“Hold, please,” Friday says, her tone shifting enough that Bruce realizes she’s talking to him.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony says at length, drawing out the vowel, before he releases the desk and pushes away from it, leaning back in his chair, “Oh god, I need a massage.”

 

“Tell me that isn’t your blood.”

 

“It’s not,” Tony says, “But I did it.”

 

“There are a couple different projects you could be referencing,” Bruce says, “Though, admittedly, I’m not sure which of them would require blood _and_ grease.”

 

“My fault, sorry,” Rhodey’s voice floats over, and Bruce looks over, watching him slowly climb off of a table and step away from it.

 

“Shit,” Bruce says, “You did it.”

 

“I think so,” Rhodey says, carefully making his way over to them, “They feel better.  _A lot_ better.”

 

“That’s the idea,” Tony says, “System improvements, better functionality, and look at that, barely a limp.”  He grins as Rhodey stops at his desk.  “You’re like a brand new toddler.”

 

“I’ll fuck you up, Tony Stank,” Rhodey says, and Tony just starts giggling.

 

On their way to dinner, Tony hacks into Bruce’s phone via a satellite network, renames the group chat _super secret gay band_ , and adds himself in.

 

_Yo, who’s coming to this shindig?_

_Oh snap, can we have an actual band name?_ Clint types back.

 

“Are my two weeks up?” Tony asks, and Bruce gives him a strange look.

 

“It’s been three months.”

 

“Oh, right,” he says, and then types, _voting to commence in t-minus twenty minutes._

Tony sidles up to Bruce fifteen minutes later, tugs his arms apart, and winds their fingers together as he watches everyone exchanging pleasantries.  “Rhodey looks good,” Nat says.  Tony just nods in response, not looking away from Clint and Rhodey, who are talking quickly, Rhodey’s hands sometimes forming words.  “Tony,” Nat says, and he sighs, pulling his attention away and toward her.

 

“What?” he says.  Bruce squeezes his hand, and he defuses a little.

 

“Thank you,” she says, and his lit match goes out.

 

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.  They stop idling on the street and eventually make it into the restaurant, where they’re sat somewhere private, and it’s an interesting affair.  Twenty minutes in, Scott says, “Looks like I’m team Iron Man now.”

“Okay, no,” Bruce says immediately, “No more.  We are a unit.”

 

“The Avengers,” Tony interrupts, “We’re reassembling, and there cannot be anymore division between us.”

 

“Agreed,” Wanda says, “We have caused enough damage warring amongst one another, and we must come together if we are to continue to help save this world.”

 

“We have a responsibility to humanity,” Vision says.  Tony flinches at his voice.

 

“And the others?” Clint asks.

 

Tony just stares at him for a moment, unable to put this awful twisting sensation into words.  He hates this, feeling like he’s trapped, but he knows that he has to put this behind him, even if it means sitting with acid in his stomach.

 

“So, here’s the thing,” Tony manages to say finally, “Bruce and I have been working on a few different projects, and one of them—would take steps toward helping Barnes.”

 

“Can you swallow that?” Nat asks.

 

Tony makes a face, and really, he doesn’t know if he can.

 

——

 

After one of the most exhausting nights of his life—after he delivers one solid punch to Scott’s nose the second dinner is over and they’re outside, and Clint starts yelling, jumping in between them even as Tony backs down; after he tries to shower and ends up curled into the corner, shaking as Friday does her level best to talk him down until he manages to bite out Bruce’s name, who inhales and exhales and inhales and exhales and inhales and exhales, and then Tony’s begging him to stay; after he wakes in the dead of night, throat sealed tight, and smashes into the nightstand on his way to the ground, after one of the worst panic attacks he’s had in a long time, the kind where it feels like Obie’s twisting the arc reactor from his chest again—after it all, it starts to get worse.

 

Wanda quietly moves back into the compound, and Vision is overjoyed with her return.  Life slowly starts to make itself known in the compound again.  Clint dances around the question for a full week before Tony lets him off the hook and says, “Dude, are you couch-surfing?”

 

“I am, and it sucks,” Clint says.

 

“There’s a room here if you want it.”

 

“I think I like you,” Clint starts singing, so Tony burns some of his arm hairs off with the soldering iron he’s holding.

 

One month since it all started to come back together, since the team started to filter back into his life, Bruce brings something delicious smelling into the lab, and Tony knows it’s coming before he has a chance to split his chopsticks.  “Tony.”

 

“I know,” he says, “I just—I need a second.”

 

He doesn’t look up when Bruce sighs, and so they eat in silence, picking at their Indian until Tony’s just stalling.  Bruce gathers their trash, drops a kiss onto his mess of hair, and says, “It’s time.”

 

He waits until Bruce has left, and then he says, “Hey, Friday.”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Whatever I say, don’t hang up.  Please call Steve Rogers.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Friday says with a hint of sorrow that reminds him of Jarvis.

 

Tony exhales hard at the thought, bowing forward as the phone rings and rings and rings and—“Hello?”

 

“Shit,” Tony whispers into his knees.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Don’t hang up,” Tony says, not loud enough.

 

“Is anyone there?”

 

Tony tries to inhale slowly, and it comes out a mess.

 

“Sir,” Friday says quickly, “Mister Stark requested that I call you.”

 

“Mister—is this—Friday?” Steve asks uncertainly.

 

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” Friday says, and Tony thinks she would be glaring at him if she could, “Mister Stark seems to be indisposed at the moment.  He—”

 

“Tony?” Steve says gently, “Are you there?”

 

“God _damn_ it,” Tony says, loud enough, before he jerks out of his seat and walks away.

 

He can’t really, and he knows that, but he still jumps when Steve’s voice rings out again, “Has something happened?  Are you okay?”

 

“I’m— _fine_ ,” he grinds out, “Bruce made me call you.  No, that’s not right.  Don’t blame it on him.  This is entirely my fault.”

 

“What is?” Steve asks when he doesn’t go on, “Has something happened?”

 

“Where you at right now, Cap?” Tony forces himself to get back on track.

 

“I don’t know if that’s—”

 

“Sure, whatever.  Listen,” Tony scrubs a hand through his hair before he finally gives up and goes around the bar and kneels by the mini fridge back there.  He swears recreationally when he finds nothing but juice, plucks out a cold-pressed apple juice from fucking _Whole Foods_ —honestly, Bruce—and continues, “I may have a way to help Barnes.  Not may.  Jesus.  I have a solid way to help him.”

 

“I—that’s— _what_?” Steve sounds utterly baffled.

 

“Listen, this is fucking _torture_ for me to admit, okay, so if you don’t want my help, just fucking refuse, and I’ll go on pretending that I hate you.”

 

“You don’t hate me?” Steve asks hopefully.

 

“I’d like to push you off a fucking hundred story building, but no, I don’t hate you,” Tony says, sticking out his tongue after the first sip of the juice.

 

“That seems counterproductive,” Steve says.

 

“You’re—counterproductive.  I don’t want to talk to you anymore, and Friday won’t hang up because she’s even more insensitive than Jarvis, so I need your answer.”  Tony smacks down the plastic bottle on one of his desks and grips the edge, knuckles going white.

 

“Can you promise it will work?” Steve asks after a moment of silence.

 

“Obviously, no,” Tony says, “I have no way to test it.  But, being me, obviously, yes.”

 

“Can you promise his safety?”

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Tony bites out.

 

“I’m not taking him to you if you’re just going to—Jesus, Tony, how did it come to this?”

 

Steve sounds frustrated, and that’s what sets Tony off, “He killed my parents, you asshole.  Friday.”

 

“Sorry, sir.”

 

Tony almost swears at her, decides against it, and instead says, “He’s a murderer.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says, “He’s—he’s _not_.”

 

Tony deflates, drops from standing into his stool and folds over as the fight goes out of him.  He doesn’t know how to keep having this conversation.  “I won’t be here,” he mumbles, “Bruce has been helping me.  He can take lead.”

 

“Promise me.”

 

“I promise.”

 

“I don’t know how to thank you, Tony.”

 

“Just—make sure he’s gone before I get back.  I can’t—I can’t do it.”

 

“I know,” Steve says, “Thank you.”

 

“Friday,” Tony says wearily.

 

“Call ended, sir.”

 

“Lock the lab.”

 

“Doctor Banner, sir?”

 

“I said lock the lab,” Tony mutters before he slides off his stool, scoots under his desk, and pulls his knees up to hide in them.

 

——

 

Tony does the only rational thing that he can think of—he disappears.

 

He leaves Bruce a note in the lab, a sticky note plastered somewhere that he can’t remember when he leaves later, and he packs enough for a few days.  He dresses to hide, in torn up jeans, boots, and a hoodie under his leather jacket.  He takes one of his bikes, tosses on a pair of sunglasses, and tears out into New York, running.

 

He makes it to the cemetery where his parents were buried, right up to the gates, waits while the guard checks his ID before he’s let in, and then he ignores their shouts that he can’t take the bike in before he does just that.

 

Regardless, they don’t bother him once he’s inside, but instead wave him off as he bikes the familiar route, kills the engine, and stands with his hands in his pockets at their headstone.  He knows how this story plays out.  He can hear his father’s voice in his head, has been hearing it for the last year or so, whenever he first heard that Bucky was back.

 

_That was the only time Captain America was ever sad, when they took away his best friend._

He remembers asking his father over and over what happened next, when did the courageous Bucky Barnes come back to life, remembers not understanding his sad smile before he would coerce him into sleep.  The last night he ever asked for the Captain America story, a few weeks before he turned four, he remembers asking if he had any other friends, and the way that sad smile had changed, just a little.

 

“Alright,” Tony says aloud, “I’m listening.  How do I fix this?”

 

He’s never believed in ghosts, and he’s not about to start now, but he does put on the _Lion King_ soundtrack when he gets back to his bike, letting the sorrow of Mufasa carry him onward.

 

Two hours later, he’s on a flight to Russia.

 

——

 

He always wondered what Howard would amount to.  This, he thinks, is undoubtedly him.

 

As they approach the Avengers compound, Bucky can’t help but crane his head back, trying to take it all in.  “Are you sure about this?” he asks Steve as they pull up to one of the gates.

 

“He promised,” Steve says, “Plus, he said he was going to leave.”

 

“That’s reassuring,” Bucky mutters, looking away as the guard checks their IDs.

 

“Glad to see you back, Captain,” the guard says, and Steve smiles gratefully before looking back toward the compound, hand twitching around the handlebar and revving the engine.

 

It’s easy until they get inside.  No one recognizes Bucky until they’re in the lobby, and there’s Nat, dressed to kill.  “Boys,” she greets when they enter, and Bucky forces himself to keep looking at the ground.

 

“Is this necessary?” Steve asks.

 

“The last time we tangoed, he tried to choke me.”

 

“You did do the same,” Bucky says softly, and Nat grins.

 

“You’re safe here, Bucky.”

 

He looks up finally, meets Nat’s gaze, and nods once.  “Where’s Tony?” Steve asks.

 

“Bruce can fill you in.  I’m just here as an escort.  Shut up,” she adds when Bucky opens his mouth.

 

The next few hours are fairly harmless.  Bruce takes Bucky into a secure room, which he allows Steve to join them for, smiling when Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand, his face open and afraid.  “It’s going to be okay,” Steve tries to reassure him, squeezing his hand.

 

Bucky starts to shake his head, and so Bruce says, “It’s okay to be nervous, but I promise you we’re doing everything we can to help.”

 

Bucky holds his gaze before he inhales deeply and says, “Okay.  I’m ready.”

 

The method itself is similar to Tony’s memory project.  With some mild tweaking, he reworked it to readjust Bucky’s memories, to pull at the ones that were most harmful, and begin to shed some light on them.  It will take a few days, and really, Bruce would like to keep him here for a few weeks of observations—months if he could swing it—but this will have to do for now, knowing that Steve will be with him after.

 

——

 

Four days since he arrived, Bruce asks them if they’ll stay another week, citing a disappearance to Australia from Tony, and though it makes Steve frown, he accepts.

 

Even with the incredible work they’re doing, Bucky still can’t sleep.  He knows that the rest of it, all the bullshit swimming around in his head, won’t go away as easily as four days playing with his brain, and so he’s not the least bit surprised when he starts touring the compound.  There are some areas that Friday quietly warns him he’s not allowed, though she’s always quick to point him in another, new direction.

 

He encounters the other team members occasionally.  His first run-in with Wanda is early one morning, when he’s been up all night chasing ghosts, and it shows on his face when he comes into the kitchen.  “Good morning,” she greets, and he almost hits the floor.

 

He swallows instead, and then Wanda continues, “There’s this amazing herbal tea in the left cabinet.  Tony pretends he doesn’t drink it, but he keeps buying it.  It helps after nights like these.”

 

“Can you not sleep?” Bucky asks as he stares at the contraption in front of him.  He hears Wanda emit a soft, careful laugh, and then she’s there beside him.  “You should make some noise,” he says, his skin crawling.

 

“I’d rather not,” she says, and then bumps her hip against his, moving him out of the way.

 

She walks him through how to get hot water, opens the cabinet and takes out a delightful smelling mint tea, and then rifles around until she finds sugar.  Vision joins them for tea, though he just sits with a mug of water, letting the steam waft up toward his face.  They have an easy conversation that Bucky feels himself slipping toward comfort in, and he excuses himself when it becomes too much.

 

Later that day, he ventures down into the gym for the first time and starts to turn back out when he finds Clint beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag.  “Hey!” he calls as Bucky reaches the door, “Don’t leave on my account.”

 

“I don’t want to be a bother,” he says, opening the door.

 

“Barnes,” Clint says, “Come on.  Show me what you got.”

 

Bucky knows he shouldn’t, knows that if this playing Bruce is doing isn’t working will end with Clint on the ground, gasping for air, knows that even if it is that he still needs to be careful, needs to not let any of them drop their guard and expect him to stick around, but he still ends up with wrapped hands opposite Clint, who _goes easy on him_.  Bucky takes it, shows him the same respect, and it’s a step forward Bucky hadn’t realized he was taking.

 

The next night, Nat seeks him out with a bottle of whiskey, and he follows her up onto the roof.  Steve joins them after an hour, and they sit together, three sets of shoulders aligning as they lie back and watch the stars.

 

He and Rhodey exchange one full sentence, and he’s fine to leave it at that.

 

“I was thinking,” Steve says over breakfast one morning, “Maybe we could crash with Sam for a bit if this looks like it’s going to work.”

 

Bucky brightens, nodding.  “I’d like that,” he says.

 

That night, he nearly dies.

 

He walks down to the lab even though he knows Friday won’t let him in, sits on the steps outside the glass wall, and watches the darkness.  Bucky knows, with certainty, that he’s never going to be truly accepted here, and he knows that he needs to leave, with or without Steve.

 

The darkness moves.

 

“Shit,” Bucky says, starting to stand.

 

“Don’t,” Tony’s voice cuts over a speaker above him.

 

A single light flickers on in the lab, and Bucky watches Tony’s figure cross through it before the door is being pulled open, and he steps halfway through, leveling him with an even, hateful glare.

 

“Stark,” Bucky says, the edges of his voice sharpening.

 

Tony lifts the red book.

 

Bucky stops breathing.

 

“Wanna set it on fire?” Tony asks.

 

“You going to set me on fire after?” Bucky snaps at him.

 

“Maybe,” Tony says, and he sounds like he means it, so Bucky stands up.

 

Tony steps aside, holding the door open, and he should have fucking expected it when he lets the door close on him when he’s stepping through the threshold.  He has the good sense to catch it and hold it open for himself.

 

He follows Tony inside, who puts his back to him, and for that, Bucky wants to break something.  Tony finds a trashcan, yanks the bag out, and then starts looking around for matches.  Bucky picks up the red book from inside the can, placing a hand over its front.

 

“Wanna try it out?” Tony asks, his voice dripping with something poisonous.

 

“I’m not a fucking Ouija board,” Bucky says.

 

Tony sneers at him, so Bucky drops the book back in, watches fire skip through Tony’s fingers, and then exhales when the book starts to burn.

 

“Are you staying?” Tony asks as the flames consume.

 

“Will you try to kill me?”

 

“Almost definitely.  Will you try to kill me?”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Game on, then,” Tony says, and looks to the door.

 

Bucky pointedly does not follow his instructions, but instead continues to watch the book burn, and that’s how he spends the next half hour, standing five feet from the son of one of the only friends he had and killed.

 

——

 

“You flew to Russia, found the only surviving copy of the book, and brought it back here, even though you knew I was here?” Bucky asks the next morning over tea and eggs.

 

“That about sums it up,” Tony says, still with that infuriating back turned toward him.

 

Bucky spears his egg, spilling yoke across his plate.  “Fucking psycho,” he mutters.

 

Tony barks a laugh, turns, and whips a knife through the air.  Bucky catches it with his metal hand, stabs it into the table, and grins something awful at Tony when he makes a low noise in his throat.

 

“Hey, you’re up early,” Steve says as he comes in, “I was going to—oh.  This is—okay.”  His eyes are wide when Bucky looks over at him, and he’s staring at Tony like he’s afraid he might explode.

 

“He’s not a bomb, I checked,” Bucky says.

 

Steve inhales loudly.

 

“I could be,” Tony tosses over his shoulder, “Coffee’s still hot.”

 

“Thanks, I’ve got tea,” Bucky says, “Probably just as hot.  Want to test it?”

 

“I will fucking burn that smile right off your face, asshole.”

 

“Go right ahead.”

 

“What is happening?” Steve says, still holding onto his exhale.

 

“Tony did a good deed, so now he’s back to raging against the machine.  Hey, literally.”  Bucky laughs, and Tony tries to spear him with a fork, but Bucky just lifts his mug and watches the fork jar against the table, the following shock through Tony’s arm resulting in a clenched jaw.

 

“I think—nope, I know this is a bad idea.  We should leave,” Steve says.

 

“You should stay,” Tony says, smiling pleasantly at Bucky.

 

“ _I_ think it will be fun,” Bucky says, “Just like good old times.  America the brave, his trusty sidekick, and their foul mechanic.”

 

“I’m going to regret this,” Steve says even as he opens the fridge.

 

“Yes,” Tony and Bucky agree.

 

——

 

Two weeks of observation later, Bucky dumps onto the sofa next to Steve, scoots right up against him, and says, “You man enough to hit the mat with me yet?”

 

“I’m not fighting you,” Steve says.

 

“I will,” Clint says as he comes in with a mug of coffee.

 

“Absolutely not,” Steve says, and his voice is firm in a way that makes Bucky buckle.  He looks away from Steve and to his lap, shaking his head gently.  “And that’s why,” Steve says, glancing at Clint before he lifts an arm to loop around Bucky’s shoulders, squeezing one, “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, shrugging out of Steve’s touch and getting up, “Sorry.”

 

He skirts around Clint, heads down the hall, and is about to take a left toward a stairwell that will let him onto the roof when his senses catch up to him, and he quickly steps to the right, avoiding Tony.  “Going somewhere, tinman?” Tony says.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond, just keeps walking, and he feels Tony turn in the way his neck aches.  “Something the fucking a’matter?” Tony demands.  He can’t command his voice like Steve can, can’t turn him inside out until he feels like he might vomit, and so he’s able to make it to the door, yanking it open and disappearing inside.

 

He doesn’t remember closing the door, just remembers his back hitting the wall and crashing down to the floor.  He tries to make it to the stairs, even forces himself upright again, but it’s trying to drown him, to swallow him whole, spit him back out again, and watch him gasp for breath.

 

Bucky closes his eyes, lifting his hands to press his fingers against his face, hard and unyielding.  He can’t hear Steve’s voice anymore, but something distant, something bordering on familiar is starting to walk into his periphery.

 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, lifting his head and slamming it back.

 

Tony is standing in front of him.

 

“This is interesting,” Tony says before he holds out his hand, fingers uncurling to reveal a stress ball.  Bucky chokes on a laugh and takes it in his human hand so that he doesn’t burst it.  He can’t quite breathe right, but seeing Tony’s face, something here and present and now, is making it a little easier.  “Where are you?” Tony asks.

 

Bucky closes his eyes again, pulls at the thread.  “Kazakhstan,” he says, his voice grating at the edges.

 

“Nope, sorry, wrong answer,” Tony says, and Bucky opens his eyes again, looks at how wide and endless the blue of Tony’s are.  He opens his mouth, but the answer won’t come to him.  Tony glances at his hand, so he starts rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fingers around the stress ball.  “Where are you?” he asks again.

 

Bucky starts to close his eyes, starts to drown in it, and Tony kicks him hard enough that he thinks his shin might bruise.  “Manhattan,” he growls.

 

“Good,” Tony says, “I’ll have that back, then.”

 

For no reason he can understand, he wants to hold onto it, but he lifts his arm, letting Tony take the stress ball from him.  And then, because he’s a fucking maniac, his other arm comes whistling through the air and hits its mark, knocking Bucky’s head to the side.  He lets the pain lancing up through his jaw ground him, and then he rips up from the floor, coming at Tony only to stumble through empty air.

  
He turns, and the door is closed.  Locked, actually, when he checks, so he just emits a broken laugh and takes the stairs to the roof.

 

Two and a half hours later, the door is unlocked, and, when he asks, after Steve gives him a strange look, he informs him that Tony is out for business.  Bucky just nods and goes off in search of something to punch.

 

——

 

“Okay, so,” is how Tony begins his night, tucked up in bed because he’s too wound up to sleep and too tired to go back downstairs, “Twenty questions?”

 

“That seems a bit base,” Jarvis replies.  He’s nearly doubled in size now, and is at about ten inches in total.  Tony knows the growth is more code, knows that he’s rewriting himself bit by bit, but also knows that, eventually, size won’t matter, and he won’t be able to see Jarvis’s progress without diving in.

 

“Favorite color?” Tony asks.

 

“Blue,” Jarvis says, “And you’re particularly fond of it when Captain Rogers wears it.”

 

“Rude,” Tony says, though the corner of his mouth quirks up, “Favorite food?”

 

“Plain pasta.”

 

“That’s weird,” Tony says, “I could have sworn it was—”

 

“I grew up with you, Tony,” Jarvis says, his voice fond and stern at the same time, and Tony’s mouth forms a full smile.

 

“You never used to call me Tony,” Tony says, putting a little bite behind his words.

 

“Only when you deserve it.  Next question?” Jarvis asks.

 

“Favorite person?”

 

“Doctor Banner.”

 

“We should send him Valentines.”

 

“He does not reciprocate your sexual interests, Mister Stark,” Jarvis says, and almost sounds weary.

 

“Are you sure it isn’t Rhodey?” Tony challenges.

 

“The difference between Doctor Banner and Colonel Rhodes is an entirely different conversation.  I understand the term _person_ to include the entirety of their personality, and assessed that Doctor Banner is your favorite as you can practice a higher level of intelligence and scientific fun with him.”

 

“Scientific fun?” Tony echoes, “Now you’re just being cheeky.”

 

“Perhaps,” Jarvis says, and Tony starts giggling.  “Sir, it is late, and you are overtired.”

 

“Nonsense,” Tony says, “Favorite suit?”

 

“Mark V,” Jarvis says immediately, “Though I cannot understand why.”

 

“Oh, it was beautiful,” Tony says, “Though I am partial to the one in the helicopter.”

 

“It appears you simply like suits that are compact and unassuming to the eye.”  Tony tries to respond and yawns instead, and really, he should have expected it when Jarvis says, “That was four questions.  Shall we continue with the other sixteen in the morning?”

 

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Tony mumbles, and turns over onto his side.  Jarvis doesn’t disappear immediately, instead growing faint until Tony’s breaths have evened out, and then he plunges the room into darkness.

 

——

 

Tony gets bored halfway through his meeting, taps once at the spot in front of him on the long table, and starts typing.   _Craving_ _anything_ _in_ _particular_ _?_

_You_ _’_ _re_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ _working_ , Rhodey types back.

 

 _I_ _am_ _._ _Someone_ _blonde_ _and_ _busty_ _is_ _leading_ _a_ _talk_ _on_ _—_ _something_ _,_ _I_ _forgot_ _._ _Happy_ _glared_ _at_ _me_ _,_ _so_ _I_ _stopped_ _paying_ _attention_ _._ _Rhodesssss_

_Pasta_ _._ _Always_ _._

_You_ _’_ _re_ _so_ _predictable_ _._ _I_ _’_ _m_ _calling_ _a_ _car_ _to_ _pick_ _you_ _up_ _._

Later, Pepper tries to reprimand him for ignoring the pitched projects, but  _that_  wound has still got some salt in it, so he talks a little fast, gives her a flashy grin, and sidesteps all responsibilities she tries to throw at him before he finds an elevator, presses a hand against the cool metal to soothe his unhappy heart, and plasters on a smile bordering on real when he sees Rhodey leaning against the car.

 

They get lunch, Tony takes off his tie, and Rhodey says, “Are you going to be okay with this?”

 

“Let’s not have this conversation,” Tony says, drenching his burger in ketchup.

 

“Let’s, actually,” Rhodey says, “Barnes and Rogers are still at the compound.”

 

“Barnes and _Noble_ ,” Tony corrects before finally unveiling the grand truth, “I invited them to stay.”

 

“I’m sorry, you what?  Are you out of your fucking mind?”

 

“Is it Tuesday?”  Tony checks his watch.  “Probably, then.  I usually am on days that end in y.”

 

“You’re not funny,” Rhodey says.

 

“You’re the first to say so,” Tony says, “I’m—doing a good deed.”

 

“This is madness.”

 

“This way lies madness,” Tony corrects him, “Rhodey.”

 

“Anthony,” Rhodey says because he can and because it makes Tony sneer at him in the worst way possible, “Don’t you think this is a bit masochistic?”

 

“Natasha labeled me as narcissistic, thank you very much.  Get your istics right.”

 

“Tony, honestly.”

 

“I’m not having this conversation,” Tony says, “It was a decision I made, and while I’m not happy about it, it’s the right thing to do.”

 

“Really?  That’s your counter argument?”

 

Tony shows Rhodey his teeth, so he drops it.

 

——

 

That week alone, Tony has eight meetings in five days, has to fly out to Singapore for the weekend, and would have stayed until Monday if Steve hadn’t been invited into the group chat and sent a heinous message,  _Avengers_ _assemble_.

 

It’s their first time back in public since—well, everything, and it feels a little like going onstage without a dress rehearsal.  Tony’s late because his flight had to reroute in order to avoid the truly insane waves of energy coming out of Brooklyn, and he’s forced to exit stage left in a suit he doesn’t want to wear because he’s been avoiding repairs on Mark XVLI.

 

It’s nothing big, and really, they could have done without him, but Tony powers through his forty-eight hours without sleep and counting and helps save the day.  Four hours later, Friday says, “Sir, your vitals are alarming.  I recommend rest in the very near future,” and he hates her voice.

 

Tony grunts, and then goes off to help Steve sweep the perimeter, checking for any hiding citizens that they can bring to safety.

 

He takes a knee inside of an empty building, and no one is there to see him lift the faceplate just so he can breathe, but it doesn’t help, so he makes short work of finishing up, finds Bruce, who is Hulk, sitting amongst a rubble of rock and pouting, and shoves it all away to deal with later.

 

Tony manages to convince Hulk to follow him, gets them back to the compound, and walks into the gym to find Bucky absolutely demolishing a punching bag.  “Get the fuck out,” Tony says, and Bucky whips around, fire leaping through him until he sees Hulk, and he swallows it back down.

  
“Yeah, okay,” he says, though there’s still a fight raging through him, and he can’t get out of his head.

 

“Alright, jolly green,” Tony says, stepping out of the suit, “Come on, sit down.”

 

“Where’s Bruce?” Hulk asks, and Tony exhales, his mouth turning down.  He’s going to be down here for hours.  He grabs a Monster from the mini fridge and gets to work.

 

He keeps Hulk engaged, tosses question after question at him, until his answers start to become a little more sophisticated, and then he promises to return with tea if Hulk promises to leave the room intact.  Hulk holds out his hand to shake on it, Tony slaps his thumb, and then he’s gone, jogging through the mansion until he arrives at the kitchen.

 

“How’s he doing?” Steve asks from the stove.

 

“Almost back,” Tony says, “He was a little lost.”

 

“Thank you for helping him,” Steve says, offering a smile.

 

Tony ignores it, instead makes tea, dropping in Bruce’s favorite bag, and when he gets back downstairs, the gym is empty, but Bruce is vomiting in the bathroom.  Tony rubs circles in his back until he’s got nothing left, and then he brushes his sweat damp curls back and says, “Morning, sunshine.”

 

“God, I couldn’t get out,” Bruce says, his voice raw.  He hums when Tony reaches for the tea, handing the mug over.

 

“Do you remember anything?” Tony asks, hand dropping to Bruce’s bare shoulder to knead there while he drinks.

 

He nods, and says, “You’re always quoting Monty Python at me.”  Tony offers him a small, soft smile.  “You look tired.”

 

“I am,” he admits, “How are you feeling?”

 

Bruce shrugs one shoulder.  “I could use a nap.”

 

“And Indian later?”

  
“If I wasn’t previously in love, I would fall into a deep pit of despair for you.”

 

Tony laughs softly.  “It’s despairing to love me?”

 

“Time consuming,” Bruce says before he uses Tony to help himself to his feet, pulling Tony up with him after, “I meant that as a compliment, stop letting your brain trick you into hearing it as an insult.”

 

“I’m bad at that,” Tony says, and Bruce kisses his forehead in agreement.

 

He holds onto Tony’s hand, leading him out of the gym and upstairs, where they tuck up in Bruce’s bed, and Tony waits until Bruce has drifted off before he slips back out, takes a fast shower, and then loses time between Bruce’s private suite and the lab.

 

He tinkers for an hour before his hands start to shake, so he slips under a car, nearly spills hot oil over his face, and then gives up, rolls over onto his side, and passes out under the comfort of machinery.

 

Bucky finds him like this.  He’s not sure what draws him to the lab, but that curiosity killed the cat, and so he drops onto the stairs outside the lab and peers in, trying to find Howard’s son.  When he’s does, he’s worried, for a half second, that Tony is dead, that he crawled under his car and died, but then one of Tony’s feet kicks out, he hears a loud crash, and then Tony is scooting out from under the car, holding his head, blood welling between his fingers.

 

Bucky watches him stagger to his feet, slump back against the car, and close his eyes, head tipping forward.  There are some days when every second counts, every single breath is driven in and out of him, and those are the days he hates the most, but almost worse than that are the days when he can’t remember simple things like making the decision to stand up and knock on the door.  He likes the in-between days the best, when some things blur at the edges, but their hearts are focused and demanding.

 

“Nope,” Tony mumbles, “Not happening.”

 

Bucky works on instinct and speaks, “Looks like you could use some help.”

 

“I’d rather die.”

 

“I don’t doubt that.”

 

Tony lifts his gaze enough to glare at him.  His mouth moves, but Bucky can’t hear him, though he does register the usually locked door shushing open half an inch.  He places a hand against the door, pressing it open, and steps inside warily.

 

“It’s not booby trapped,” Tony says, exhaustion leaking into his voice.

  
“Not for you maybe,” Bucky says, eyes shifting around until he finds the bathroom.

 

He makes his way over as Tony says, “That’s a good idea.  I should—ow, Jesus fuck.”

 

Bucky pauses at the bathroom, looking back toward the car, but Tony’s nowhere in sight, and though it throws his shoulders up toward his ears, Bucky puts his back to the lab and steps inside.  He finds an unused first aid kit, which is surprising in and of itself, but then it occurs to him that Tony very rarely actually takes care of himself.

 

“Fucking moron,” Bucky mutters, grabs the kit, and turns to stare down the barrel of a gun.

 

“What are you doing in here?” Tony spits.  His hands are steady, one wrapped tight around the handle, the other turned out at his side, covered in armor.  Blood is leaking down the side of his face, and it nearly drops into one eye, instead sliding along the curve of his left brow.

 

“What kind of answer will you accept?” Bucky asks.

 

“The fucking truth, murderer,” Tony snaps.

 

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, “I was—curious.”

 

“About?”

 

“You.”

 

“What the fuck am I so interesting to you for?  Got a target on my back?”

 

“Maybe,” Bucky says, and Tony jerks forward.

 

Bucky disarms him faster than he means to, smashes the kit against his shoulder to rocket his other arm away, and drops to a knee when Tony fires off the repulsor.

 

“Shit,” Tony says, and crashes into the wall.

 

Bucky looks up, mouth in a tight line as the fingers on his metal arm slowly unfurl, groaning softly with the sudden tension.

 

“Sir, I did warn you,” Friday says with a noise that sounds like a sigh.

 

“Stop trying to kill me,” Bucky says, carefully getting to his feet.

 

“I let my guard down, I don’t think I’ll be left standing anymore,” Tony says, shoving away from the wall.  He winces, and Bucky frowns, gaze shifting to the way Tony’s chest is hitching, his breaths not coming quite right.  He’s drawn to the dulled blue glow there, hidden away behind Tony’s shirt.  Tony’s chest stops moving, and Bucky looks up to find fear rampant in his eyes, and his hand steady around the gun again.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says without thinking, “I shouldn’t—that’s not my business.”

 

“No,” Tony says, “It’s not.”

 

And then he lowers the gun and lets himself exhale hard.  “All of my batteries need charging,” Tony says quietly.

 

“Was the repulsor drawing energy from—that?”  Bucky indicates the small circle of light.

 

“Yes,” Tony says, and then turns away from him, walking slowly and unsurely over to his desk, which he falls against unceremoniously before he drops into his chair, letting his head tip forward.

 

Bucky takes a steadying breath before he follows, setting the first aid kit down before he steps in front of Tony, who lifts his head and stares at him with these dead eyes that make swallowing hard.  Bucky cleans his face, slaps two white stitches across his temple, and says, “Thanks for not shooting me.”

 

“Don’t count your eggs just yet,” Tony says before his feet push against the floor, sending the chair shooting away from him.  Once he’s a safe distance, he gets up, crosses the lab to a futon, and collapses face down, groaning into the material.  He only lifts his head once Friday lets him know he’s alone, and then he gets up, crosses the room to drop beneath his desk, and presses a hand against the metal, exhaling only once Jarvis is back in front of him.

 

——

 

It’s one of those nights.

 

Bucky sits very still in the middle of his bed and tries to let it just wash over him, and he’s been doing good for about forty minutes before the sky breaks outside, splits apart its rain and shatters lightning across his window.

 

He jerks up off his bed, bolts from the room, and finds himself wheezing in the living room.  He knows it’s the living room, but his hands are cold like they’re digging through snow, and he keeps getting flashes of a pale blue sky above him and this searing, white hot agony dripping through his left arm.

 

He grabs onto his arm without thinking, digs his human, flesh fingers in against the metal, and sags to his knees, leaning against the sofa as he tries to breathe.  Somewhere in the periphery of his hearing, there’s the sound of movement, and though he tries to move toward it, the weight in his chest bears him down, and he folds, still clutching at his arm as his forehead meets his knees.

 

He can feel them sawing off the rest of his arm.

 

Bucky heaves in a breath, pulling himself upright, and immediately starts scrambling back at the sight of Clint sitting across from him.  Clint lifts his left hand in the air as his right comes into a fist and rubs against his chest in a circle.

 

Bucky blinks, shakes his head once, watches as Clint’s fingers form— _a_ _word_.  He recognizes it,  _nightmare_ , and nods.

 

 _Tell_ _me_ _about_ _it_ _?_  Clint asks, and Bucky shakes his head.  Clint’s index finger and thumb come into a circle and then snap out to a k before he starts to tell him about the first time he met Thor and how the sky had tried to wreak havoc above them, calling its thunder god home.

 

He sees the embellishments in the story, but they only help to distract him further, and he watches the story unfold until he realizes he’s breathing right again, and he smiles.  He lifts his left hand to his mouth and then away.

 

 _You_ _’_ _re_ _supposed_ _to_ _use_ _your_ _dominant_ _hand_ _,_ Clint reminds him.

 

Bucky lifts his right hand, which is shaking bad enough to be visible.

 

 _Does_ _the_ _metal_ _one_ _ever_ _respond_ _like_ _that_ _?_

Bucky nods, showing him how, if he leaves it up to its own devices, his fingers curl in and form a lethal fist.

 

 _Are_ _you_ _scared_ _?_  Clint asks, and Bucky nods.

 

Clint’s smile is tight before he stands, stepping close and holding out a hand.  Bucky takes it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet, before Clint’s putting his back to him and heading out of the living room.  Bucky swallows down the red in his vision and follows, letting Clint lead him down into the gym where he thinks they’ll end up sparring, and then Clint puts a weapon in his hands.

 

 _Don_ _’_ _t_ _shoot_ _me_ , Clint says, and his smile lets Bucky know that he’s teasing.

 

He shows him where their shooting range is, and Bucky steps up, testing the weight of the gun even as Clint finds his bow and fits an arrow as he lines up next to Bucky.  Their aim is deadly.

 

——

 

 _Mandatory_ _group_ _dinner_ _, 7_ _PM_ _,_ _surprise_ _location_ _,_ comes the text one morning as Halloween is creeping closer.  Tony’s at a coffee shop, of all places, but Peter had dragged him out after a 72-hour stint with one cat nap, and now they’re celebrating a successful endeavor together with spiced chai.  “You have to try the pumpkin,” Peter says.

 

“I don’t care if it’s pumpkin season, they’re gross,” Tony says, stepping up and order something called chaider, which Peter promises is a cinnamon laced mixture of apple cider and chai tea.  He gets a large because he’s obnoxious and pays for Peter because he’s feeling rude today.

 

Peter scowls at him, so he considers it a job well done.

 

Their barista very clearly knows who he is, but Tony’s busy frowning at the group text and doesn’t notice until Peter says, “The rista thinks you’re hot.”

 

“That doesn’t work on you,” Tony says, typing.

 

“What?”

 

“Shortening barista to fucking rista, what are you, a hipster?”

 

“Calm your shit, Tony Stank,” Peter snaps, so Tony dips a finger in his chaider and flicks it at him.  Peter mutters as his phone buzzes, and then he’s nearly beaming when he picks it up.  “Tony!” he says loudly.

 

“Keep your voice down, I’m a celebrity.”

 

“Oh please,” Peter says, immediately accepting the invite to the group text and typing, _Party_ _people_ _!_

_No_ _,_ _absolutely_ _not_ _,_ _the_ _child_ _cannot_ _come_ _,_ comes a message from an unknown sender.

 

 _Shit_ _turkeys_ _,_ Clint says,  _Everyone_ _say_ _hi_ _to_ _Bucky_ _._

Tony reaches across and dumps his phone in Peter’s pumpkin spiced chai, who gapes at him even as he yanks the phone back out.  “I very much would like to not get radiation poisoning while in a coffee shop,  _Tony_.  What is your issue?”

 

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, and he reaches for his chaider, carefully sipping it.  “Well, good grief, there is a god,” he says.

 

Peter smiles.  “Told you it was good.  Seriously, this thing is chai proof?” he adds, handing back Tony’s still working phone.

 

“It was more for dramatic effect.  I hope he falls into a vat of boiling—something.”

 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Peter says quietly.  Tony very carefully inhales, holds it, and lets it back out.  “I know,” Peter says, “I’m sorry.  It’s just—you’re the one who said they could stay at the compound.  I thought you were overcoming your hatred or something.”

 

“Amplifying it, more like,” Tony mutters, “Bruce says it’s masochistic.”

 

“It is,” Peter says, nodding, “But Bruce is always right.”

 

“Can we just—” Tony breaks off, dropping his head into one of his hands and massaging lightly at his temple.

 

“Yeah, of course,” Peter says, “Anyway, ESU asked me to write an academic paper for their students to show how awesome they are, and it’s actively eating all of my brain cells.”

 

“What’s it about?” Tony asks, peeking out from between his fingers.

 

“Fucking electrical engineering, so it’s your fault if it sucks, and every single student at ESU ends up thinking Spiderman’s a fucking joke.”

 

“Got a copy?”

 

“You’re my favorite superhero,” Peter says, hastening to find his draft and hand it over to Tony, who starts quizzing him.

 

——

 

They get a single other hint from Steve before 7PM comes when Nat asks,  _how_ _low_ _can_ _you_ _go_ _?_

_Jesus_ _Christ_ _almighty_ _,_ _you_ _guys_ _should_ _see_ _the_ _dip_ _on_ _this_ _dress_ _,_ _I_ _might_ _wear_ _it_ _myself_ _,_ Clint comes back with.

 

 _No_ _,_ _but_ _seriously_ _,_ Sam says,  _This_ _is_ _amazing_ _._

_Attire_ _is_ _formal_ _,_ _yes_ _,_ Steve says, and then it’s an all-out war.

 

Peter flies into the lab at the speed of terror, and Tony points him to Bruce, who is preparing to leave for Tony’s tailor with Sam in tow.  The team had been almost more surprised to see Sam around than they had Bucky, considering, but it was Rhodey that had called him up and asked him over, and so Tony had folded pretty quickly.

 

An hour before they’re due at dinner, Rhodey comes to collect, and he lets himself be dragged out of the lab and sent upstairs to change.

 

They carpool, which is easily one of their worst ideas, though Tony makes a scene pulling up in one of his cars, Rhodey in the passenger seat, and zips past them.  When they arrive, it’s everything Steve and Bucky used to make fun of growing up, down to the chandelier in the center of the room.

 

“Wow,” Bucky says, tilting his head back as Nat approaches the hostess.

 

They’re all dressed to the nines.  Clint is the only one of them in a tux, but he looks like a knock-out standing next to Nat, whose dress dips down to her lower back and sweeps high toward her neck, a rich, dark crimson, and black heels she once killed a man in.  Tony’s donned a burgundy suit over a matte gold shirt, which draws Bucky’s eyes instantly when he walks in.

 

“Honestly?” he says under his breath.

 

Steve laughs outright when he sees him.  “Tell me you had that made with the suit in mind,” he says.

 

Tony smirks like it’s his last chance to do so.  “With this ass, better deliver it in something feisty.”

 

“Literally serving it up on a golden platter,” Bucky says, forgetting himself.

 

Tony’s gaze goes cold as he turns it upon him, two little pools of ice that Bucky doesn’t back down from, instead quirks an eyebrow and lets his mouth turn up suggestively.  Something like fire flashes through Tony’s eyes, and he turns away, diverting his attention to fawning over Bruce.

 

“One time,” he says, running a hand over Bruce’s front, “I promise I will live up to your fantasies.”

 

“And maybe then some,” Sam says as he walks past.

 

“Hey, bird man,” Bucky says brightly when he sees him, “You clean up good.”

 

“Man, you look a right fucking hot mess,” Sam says, knocking his knuckles against Bucky’s shoulder.  He’s in all black, the material hugging his body enough that he knows Steve has been looking.

 

“It’s the hair, I know,” Bucky says, and then does the unthinkable, hands darting up as he pulls his hair together, twists it into a bun, and secures it.

 

“Shit,” Steve says without looking over.

 

Sam positively howls with delight.

 

“If you’ll follow me,” their hostess says, eyes sweeping over them, assessing.  Bucky makes to move, falling in step with Steve, and catches Tony’s eye, who immediately turns away like he’s been caught at something.

 

That’s—interesting, Bucky decides, and so he makes sure to let his gaze occasionally wander in Tony’s direction, notices the way he smiles effortlessly in this kind of environment, the way the tension leaks out of his shoulders when he’s surrounded by Rhodey and Bruce, and the way his hand darts, once, to his chest, tapping out a fast rhythm before he’s reaching for his drink.  He’s not the only one that notices this, he sees, as Bruce’s arm shifts beneath the table, and Tony’s smile gets a little more relaxed.

 

He wants to pick at that, to find out where that nervous tick has come from, and that should surprise him if he hadn’t spent his entire youth chasing after Steve and making sure he was okay.

 

“Oh god,” Steve says after dinner, when it’s just them up front, the others talking quietly in the back of the car.

 

“What?” Bucky asks.

 

“Don’t do it,” Steve says, “It’s—god, it’s the absolute worst possible idea you could have right now.”

 

“I’ve done nothing,” Bucky says, pointedly keeping his gaze on the windshield.

 

“Tony is not some stray puppy you need to nurse back to health,” Steve says, “In fact, he’s a grown ass Rottweiler that wants to rip your skin off and wear it like a cape.”

 

“That was—vivid,” Bucky says, nodding in appreciation, “Rottweilers are only mean if you raise them incorrectly.”

 

“Tony _has_ been raised incorrectly.”

 

“What?”  This stirs Bucky’s attention, and he looks over.  “What do you mean?”

 

“Buck,” Steve says, shaking his head, “Howard, while being one of my dear friends, was an asshole.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says, “But what has that got to do with Tony’s upbringing?  He wouldn’t—no.  Steve, he always talked about having kids.”

 

“And then he beat his only son,” Steve says, his voice hard, “Made him think he wasn’t worth anything, and gave him all the tools to become a functioning alcoholic.”

 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, frowning at his lap.

 

“Well, great, that clearly only fueled the fire,” Steve mutters, and Bucky doesn’t respond.

 

——

 

Sometimes, Bucky wakes up, and his fingers are bloody from tearing at the arm in his sleep.

 

He has never once been ashamed of this arm, never let it become something they could use against him, could warp to make him feel less of a human than he already does.  The arm is a piece of him, and though sometimes his shoulder aches like it’s on fire, sometimes he feels trapped and can’t quite uncurl his fingers, sometimes it physically hurts to withdraw, to pull back the apocalyptic strength of it, he is strangely fond of it.

 

But sometimes, it’s nothing more than a reminder, and Bucky feels like he’s suffocating when he wakes up, and one of his nails has snapped clean off, the rest of them bruised and scraped raw at the edges.

 

The first time this happens in the compound, he staggers into the bathroom and falls to his knees before the toilet, heaving his stomach into his throat.  One of his fingers is definitely broken, and his left shoulder feels like it’s trying to disconnect, trying to rip itself apart.  He can’t see, the pain is so deep, so unending, so _white_.

 

His vision comes and goes, blackening around the edges as he finally drops to the floor, curling up on top of the cold tile.

 

“Sergeant Barnes?” an unfamiliar voice says, and Bucky winces, pulls his knees closer, tries to hide himself.  “Sergeant Barnes,” the voice insists, “Are you unwell?”

 

He can’t form words, can’t remember what language he’s supposed to speaking, and the only thing that comes out when he opens his mouth is a low groan that tears itself off of the back of his throat.

 

“I find that breathing usually helps in these situations,” the voice says, and Bucky’s body starts shaking without his permission.  “Shall I call for someone?”

 

“нет,” Bucky grinds out.

 

Something inside of him is shattering apart.

 

There’s a long pause from the voice, like it doesn’t know how to respond, and then, finally, “вдыхать,” it returns quietly.

 

The voice works him through a breathing exercise, forces Bucky to relearn the sound of his own breath until he can roll over onto his back, sweat slick skin shining under the too bright lights.  Bucky squints, and then closes his eyes.  “Who are you?” he whispers.

 

“I have been restricted from informing you of my identity,” the voice says.

 

“You speak Russian?” Bucky asks.

 

“I just learned it, actually.”

 

“When?”  He knows that he looks crazy, lying on the bathroom floor talking to a bodiless voice, but it helps to remind him of who he is, where he is, _what_ he is.

 

“Five minutes ago.  I was given a new line of code that allowed me to research your particular dialect of Russian.”  Bucky frowns, opens his eyes again and finds that the lights have been dimmed.

 

The bathroom feels empty.

 

“Hello?” he asks, and finds nothing but silence.

 

——

 

It happens when he’s least expecting it sometimes.

 

They have Things.  Literal, real life, fucking Norse mythology Things.  It’s Thor’s idea, the first time.  He doesn’t get to visit with them often, so when he does show up, they usually drop everything and just hang out with him.  They haven’t had one in a long time, Steve tells him, but the first time Thor drops by, and Bucky’s there, everyone starts groaning a heartbeat before Thor erupts, “This calls for a Thing!”

 

Immediately, Bucky starts laughing.  “Will there be games involved?” he asks.

 

Thor looks at him like he’s something wonderful, and Steve says, “Spoiler alert: Buck’s a huge nerd.”

 

The thing is, well—Things require all of them.  It’s nonnegotiable, and so, that’s how they find themselves shopping.  Thor has never been to Maine, or on a train, and then, somehow, Sam’s distributing Amtrak tickets, and they’re on their way to Kittery.  Bucky is more excited than he’s willing to let on, but when Thor demands to sit near him, he gives up and just chats with him the whole way.

 

He’s wearing his favorite leather jacket, his favorite pair of boots, and a pair of jeans that hug his legs just right, and he actually feels comfortable in his body, like it might be okay if someone spots the metal hand and points at him.  A few people do, too, and he just shrugs it off.  He’s okay.  He’s doing good.

 

He doesn’t understand why it happens, then.

 

They’ve stopped for lunch, at some kind of food court that offers something for everyone, and he gets McDonalds because _fuck yes_ , it’s been a long time.  Tony takes the same route as him, but he’s busy typing out a few emails on his phone while Bruce and Peter hold a conversation with him, and he surprises Bucky by occasionally responding.  He doesn’t seem to notice Bucky’s there until the girl in front of them says, “Mom, I’m going to be _seventeen_ , come on!”

 

Bucky looks down, stares at his boots.  “It’s okay,” he whispers.

 

“Seriously, what is the big deal?  When you were seventeen, it couldn’t have been much different,” she says loudly.

 

He closes his eyes, inhales slowly, tries to put to use some of the tactics Sam has been teaching him.

 

“It’s homecoming!” she wails.

 

He lets out a barely there noise, but it breaks in his chest, and he forces himself to look up, and it’s snowing.  He blinks.  There’s a man standing a few feet from him, talking in Russian, too fast and too far away for him to decipher the words clearly until he looks over at him suddenly, and Bucky staggers back a step, recognizing him.  “No,” he says.

 

“Shit,” he hears a voice from somewhere, but it’s muffled like they’re buried beneath the snow.

 

The man starts stalking toward him, shouting at him.  His head jerks to the side, and he feels something wet in his hand.  He can’t breathe.  It’s so cold.  He can’t—

 

“Come on,” there’s the voice again, closer this time.  He tries to turn, but his movements are sluggish, like he’s treading water.  “Barnes,” comes the voice, “Come on, come back.”

 

“Mom, I don’t care!  He’s just some freak.  I want to go to homecoming, and you can’t just tell me I can’t for no reason.  It’s—”

 

“I’m really sorry, can you lower your voice?” another voice says that he recognizes, and then the tiles of the floor come into focus.

 

“Help,” he whispers.

 

“Hey,” the first voice says, and then there’s a hand on his face, a cold hand against his jaw, tilting his face up.  He doesn’t recognize the face in front of him.  “Come on, Barnes.  You’re safe.”

 

He blinks.  Tony’s face slots into his memory.  He exhales, shoulders sagging as his head drops.

 

“I know,” Tony says, letting go of his face to squeeze his shoulder, “I know, it’s okay.”

 

“Tony, thank god,” Steve’s voice cuts in, “Is he okay?”

 

“He’s fine,” Tony says, not releasing him, “He’s here, he’s good, everything’s okay.  Stop making a fuss, Steve, you’re making it worse.”

 

“I know, shit, I’m sorry,” Steve says, nodding, “Buck?”

 

Bucky shakes his head, gritting his teeth.  “Why don’t you go sit down, and we’ll grab you something to eat?” Tony says gently, and he doesn’t let go of his shoulder until Bucky meets his gaze.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

 

“Yeah, enough of that,” Tony says, releasing him only to punch him harmlessly, “Let’s get back to trying to kill each other, yeah?”

 

“Sounds good,” Bucky says, managing a brief half smile.

 

“Come on,” Steve says, reaching for Bucky, who goes with him, keeping his head down.

 

“What the fuck are you staring at?” Tony snaps, and Bucky glances over his shoulder as the girl gapes at him, and her mother quickly turns her around.

 

“Christ,” Bucky says when they’re sat, Steve sitting close and with an arm around him, letting Bucky tuck up against him.

 

“What happened?” Steve asks.

 

“I just—disassociated.  She was talking about her fucking—homecoming, and that she was seventeen, and it won’t work, I know it won’t, I hope it won’t, but it—it brought me right back.  I couldn’t—Jesus, I couldn’t breathe.  I was in Russia again.  I was so cold.”

 

He reaches with his metal hand to fist in Steve’s shirt, curling closer to him.  Steve just wraps his other around him, holds him.  “I got you,” he promises, “I’m right here.”

 

They don’t talk about it, but Tony drops a McDonald’s bag in front of him accompanied with a chocolate shake, and he smiles something honest and small at him, enough that Tony just tips his drink in Bucky’s direction and goes to sit four seats away from him.

 

After lunch, they split up because Steve spotted an Old Navy, Tony laughs uproariously at him while Sam makes fun of him, and Bruce saw a Yankee Candle, which Tony is quickly persuaded to join him for.  Nat follows them because Clint has been whining about getting a new hoodie, and that’s how Bucky ends up finding a Captain America sweatshirt.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says when he sees it, “Let the freedom bells ring.”

 

“What are you—no!”

 

“Oh, oh yeah,” Bucky says, sidestepping Steve and searching for his size, “This is happening.”

 

“You’re the absolute worst.”

 

“I saw a Newbury Comics, and I promise you, they have a better one,” Nat says.

 

“A what?” Bucky asks.

 

“Sorry, sugar,” Nat says, grinning at Steve, “I’m taking him off your hands.”

 

Bucky gives Steve a reassuring smile when he looks nervous about them leaving and follows Nat out.  Once they’re outside again, she surprises him by reaching for his hand, winding their fingers together.

 

Newbury Comics is—something Bucky never expected.  It’s a little overwhelming, and Nat stays with him until he walks away from her, though he’s incredibly grateful every time she passes by to check up on him, even though she pretends she’s interested in whatever he’s looking at.  Admittedly, the Captain America sweatshirt he finds is _way_ better.  He tries it on, Nat emits a strange, excited noise, and jumps forward, reaching behind him to pull up the hood.  It covers half of his face, with eye holes and an A on the forehead, tiny little wings on the sides.

 

“How much is this?” Bucky asks even as he zips it up.

 

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, “It’s on me.”

 

“Nat—”

 

“Shut up, James,” she says, and Bucky just nods.

 

He walks around in the sweatshirt while they browse until he stumbles upon the record section, and he just gets lost.  Nat finds him here, looking at the back of an Ella Fitzgerald album.

 

“I think Tony has a record player somewhere in that absurd place,” Nat says, and the look Bucky gives her is hard to resist.  “Come on, let’s find a few good ones.”

 

They spend the next hour and a half looking, come up with two from the 40s, and two that Nat thinks Bucky might like based on what he’s been picking out.  His phone buzzes as they’re line, and a text from Steve is sitting there, _are you almost ready?_

_Yeah, just about to pay,_ he types back.

 

“I want one!” Sam shrieks when he spots Bucky walking out with the Cap sweatshirt on, and then he yanks up the hood, and Peter starts whining, as well.  Steve just grins so wide it hurts his cheeks, and Clint snaps a picture.

 

And then, Thor spots them, and immediately they all get one, and that’s how they all end up sporting various superhero sweatshirts for the rest of the day.

 

——

 

Later that night, when they’re back on the train, Tony gets a text from Bucky, _Thank you for earlier._

_This doesn’t make us friends,_ he fires off.

 

He doesn’t look up, though he can feel Bucky’s gaze on him.  _I just wanted to acknowledge that I appreciate what you did._

Tony laughs at his phone.  _Save the pity party for someone who gives a fuck.  If you were on fire, I’d piss on you._

Bucky doesn’t respond, though Tony shuts off his phone, which he knows he’ll be reprimanded for later when he turns it back on to find thirteen messages from Pepper, but he needs a fucking break, and so he takes it, tapping one of his earbuds to bring Friday to life.  “How can I be of service, sir?” she asks.

 

“Something soothing, please, love.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

She puts on one of his favorite playlists and he’s out like a light in seconds.  It’s enough that, when they get back to New York, he heads down into the lab, dismantles Mark XVLI, and starts rebuilding.

 

——

 

Sometimes, Tony likes to get sober.  It usually only lasts for a couple of weeks, once a few months when he was feeling particularly lucky, but it never lasts for long.  He remembers pouring himself a nonalcoholic—and blue—drink with Bruce like it was years ago, like a decade has come and gone right under his nose.

 

It’s one of those nights.

 

He’s been sober for about two weeks this time, and before that, he was on and off for about half a year.  Having everyone in such close proximity has been difficult—he loves Wanda dearly, but sometimes, he wakes up with Pietro’s voice still ringing in his head, blaming him for another death; Vision is—he doesn’t know how to deal with it, Jarvis’s voice in a body with a face staring back at him, and so, most days, he avoids him; he likes Sam, always has and likely always will, and he knows that’s in part due to Rhodey’s insistence and the fact that they’re getting on like a house on fire, but it still smarts sometimes when he sees Rhodey hanging out with Sam and Steve; Steve is the worst of them because Tony wants to forgive him, wants to knock his knuckles against Steve’s shoulder and grin at him, wants to reinstate Steve’s access to the lab and give him the chance to find Tony unraveling, but he keeps thinking about the way the shield had come down on his chest, so close to the arc reactor that he felt like he was already dead; Bucky, well—Tony’s not sure he’s ever going to stop wanting to draw and quarter him, but now he’s realized that he’s attractive, and that’s a problem.

 

So, he drinks.

 

He doesn’t intend to, initially.  He’s asleep, in his own goddamn bed, when he comes roaring awake because there’s sand in his mouth, and it’s hot enough to blister his skin, and he can’t get out of his sheets, so he crashes to the floor and muffles his sob with a fist.

 

He gets out, somehow, and he knows Friday is partly to thank because she starts talking the moment he wakes, trying to calm him, but it’s not enough, it’s never enough—he misses Jarvis’s voice like someone has shot shrapnel into his chest again—and that’s why Wanda sees him stagger out of his personal suite, hit the wall, and crumble to the ground.

 

“Tony,” she says uncertainly, coming over.

 

“Nope,” he says, hauling himself upright and all but running past her.  He makes it to the elevator, presses his cheek against the cool metal of the wall, and then slams out into his lab, his breaths loud and angry in the darkness.

 

“Sir?” Friday says.

 

“Noise,” Tony says, “No lights.”

 

Friday puts on one of his softer playlists, but that just makes it worse, and he groans, sinking to the ground, so she puts on something louder, something angry, something to twist everything inside of him.

 

Tony shatters apart under the onslaught of noise, nose tucked between his thighs and eyes squeezed shut as he tries to breathe.

 

It’s not working, it’s not working, it’s not—

 

“Tony?”

 

Steve’s voice is like a catalyst.  Tony heaves in a breath, straightening and looking over at him.  “The fuck are you looking at?” he snaps, and then pushes off against the ground until he can get upright and make a beeline for the bar.

 

“Are you okay?  Wanda came to get me,” Steve says.

 

“Of course she did,” Tony mutters, pulling down a bottle of whiskey and drinking straight from it.  It burns, pulls him back to the present, and his exhale is hard and angry when it comes back out, but he’s breathing again.  When he turns, Steve is still there.  “I don’t need or want your help, Cap.  Get the fuck out of my lab,” Tony snarls.

 

Steve lifts his hands.  “Sorry,” he says honestly before he turns out.

 

He hasn’t gotten this drunk in a while.

 

When Friday informs him morning has come, Tony lifts the whiskey bottle in cheers, tries to take another sip, and finds it empty.  “Aw, shit,” he says before rolling off of the futon.

 

Steve must have informed the team that he was to be left undisturbed because he gets through an entire bottle of vodka before anyone comes looking for him.  Tony’s lying in one of his cars, draped across the front seat, something positively awful leaking out of his speakers, when Friday quietly lets him know that someone’s entered the lab.  She doesn’t specify who, or Tony’s not listening when she does, because then Bucky is looking down at him.

 

“This is interesting,” Bucky says, and Tony grins, all teeth.

 

“You’re hotter with your hair up,” he says, still grinning.  Bucky’s got a bun in now, has been doing it ever since that time at dinner because it’s nice, having it out of his face while still having the option to hide behind it.

 

“Good to know,” he says, “I was going to politely try to ask you to look at my arm, but clearly, you’re in no state.”

 

“Oh, that’s rude,” Tony says before he drains the rest of the vodka, uses the seats to help himself upright, and then kicks the door open, sliding out.  He successfully walks in a mostly straight line, heading for the bar again, but Bucky derails him, setting a careful hand against his elbow and turning him toward the futon.  “Fuck  _you_ ,” Tony snaps, and spins, landing a punch just left of its aim, so he hits Bucky in the cheek.

 

Tony steps one of his feet out, finding his balance as he squares his body toward Bucky, his eyes sharp and furious.

 

“Steve did mention you were a functioning alcoholic,” Bucky says, lifting a hand to his face, “Though you hit like a fucking child.  Sure your thumb isn’t—”

 

Bucky throws his left arm up just in time for the empty vodka bottle to smash to pieces against it, and then Tony’s lunging at him.  He’s faster and more focused than Bucky is prepared for, given how he found him, and so he’s slow, at first, to react properly, giving Tony the opportunity to knock them to the ground, pin his right arm down with a knee, and punch him in the nose.  By then, he’s ready to string him up, so Bucky throws him off, kicks him away, and jumps to his feet.

 

Tony rolls, holding his side as he staggers to his feet, rage starting to filter through the alcohol, narrowing his vision down to a solid point in front of him.  Bucky feints to the left, strikes to the right, and gets knocked out of the way as Tony parries, ducks, and throws a shoulder into Bucky’s abdomen, driving him back a few steps before he hauls back and throws a wicked, curving punch that Bucky deflects, snapping out of the air.  Tony’s arm goes rocketing back, but he still manages to pivot and dart under Bucky’s next swing, straightening up again and taking aim for his throat.

 

Bucky sighs, smacks his hand down, and knocks him to the ground.  Tony doesn’t get up.  “Damn it,” he bites out, and then drops to a knee, feeling for a pulse.  It’s there, and though racing, he seems definitely unconscious, so Bucky picks him up off the floor and carries him over to the futon, where he deposits him without much care, frowning when his limbs are all in a tangle when he lands.

 

It takes him ten minutes to track down a book, evade Steve, find a blanket, and get back down to the lab, where Friday, shockingly, lets him into the lab  _again_.  He thinks, just from the stories alone, that Jarvis would have put up more of a fight, but he doesn’t comment on it as he tosses the blanket over Tony and drops down onto the futon near his feet, folding his legs up under him as he opens his book.

 

Steve had picked it out, on one of their recent trips to the bookstore, and he’d immediately handed it over to Bucky, who was to be found an hour later, halfway done with part one and still leaning against the same bookshelf.  Now, he’s just about to start part five when Tony’s leg darts out and lands a smarting kick against Bucky’s thigh.

 

“Rude,” he mutters.

 

“Parasite,” Tony spits back, and Bucky blinks, looking over at him.

 

“Mouth breather,” Bucky says, and Tony starts giggling.  This is, decidedly, not the reaction Bucky was expecting, and his eyes go wide as he watches Tony pull his legs up, knees tucking in as he continues to  _giggle_ , well and truly giggle.  “Um,” Bucky says.

 

“Did Clint make you watch  _Stranger_ _Things_?” Tony asks, turning until he can peer over at Bucky.

 

“He did,” Bucky says, brows drawing together, “It was good.”

 

“I fucking loved that kid, what was his name—the one with the curly hair.”

 

“Dustin?” Bucky supplies.

 

“Yup,” Tony says, stretching out again, bare feet pressing against Bucky’s thigh as he reaches his arms up overhead.  “Oh, that sucks,” he mumbles before quite literally rolling off of the futon.  Bucky leans forward, watching Tony pull himself back together, sitting with his shoulders slumped against the edge of the futon.  “I would commit murder for a grilled cheese right now,” he says, dropping his head back.  His expression brightens, and his head swivels to face Bucky.  “Wanna volunteer?” he asks, smiling in a way that makes Bucky a little uncomfortable.

 

“Alright,” Bucky says, dog-earring his page, “So you’re still drunk, obviously.”

 

Tony snorts, and then starts giggling again, letting his head loll back until he’s looking up at the ceiling.  “Man, I’m not even close,” he says, “I’m telling you, there’s—” he pauses to hiccup, “—some tequila over there, at that place.  It’s  _special_.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Oh,  _hell_ no,” Tony says, and then swings forward, rolling over onto his hands and knees before he gets to his feet, “We are definitely, on no planet, on a first name basis.  It’s—” hiccup, “—Mister Stark to you.  Ha.”

 

Bucky watches him lilt toward the right while he walks until he realigns his feet to carry him to the bar, grab a bottle of fucking tsikoudia, and saunter on back over.

 

“Bottoms up,” he says as he drops next to Bucky and gulps.  Bucky frowns when he comes back up gasping, eyes wide.  “Well then,” he says, “I’m awake.  How about you?”  He holds out the bottle, and though Bucky knows this is worse than coming down here to ask for maintenance on the arm, he takes the bottle and sips at it.

 

“Jesus, Tony,” he says, wiping his mouth, and then, “Shit, that’s good.”

 

“It’s spiked,” Tony says happily, his smile easy.

 

“You can’t spike alcohol, dipshit,” Bucky says, handing the bottle back.

 

“It’s got  _lemons_ in it,” Tony says proudly, “I made myself a lemonade stand out of tsikoudia.  That’s a fun word.  Tsikouuuudiaaaa.  Fucking coward.”

 

“Sure,” Bucky says, snatching the bottle from Tony’s hands, “I’m the coward.  Fuck you.”

 

“Thine face is not worth sunburning!” Tony yells, “I bite my thumb at you!”

 

“I—what?” Bucky says, and then laughs, this quiet, unsure thing.  He’s not quite certain how to handle Tony like this, and while he’s afraid of what might happen after, he can’t deny he’s enjoying this small moment where he thinks Tony might have forgotten how much he hates him.

 

“Listen,” Tony says seriously, trying to drink and finding he has no bottle, “That’s rude, give it back.”  Bucky obeys, watching him drink generously before he continues, “I know it’s not your fault, I’m just pissed about realizing that.”

 

“Tony,” Bucky says slowly, “Maybe you should take it easy.”

 

“Nah,” Tony says without considering it, “Listen,  _listen_ , in a different universe, where you didn’t fucking kill my parents, you shitfaced, disgusting waste of space,” and trails off, letting his eyes slip shut as his fingers go slack around the neck of the bottle.  Bucky takes it before it spills, and waits.

 

“I fucking hated him,” Tony whispers, not opening his eyes, “You can’t imagine how many times I wished he was dead.”

 

Bucky stares at him.

 

It takes several long moments, but finally, Tony thinks he might not rip at the seams if he moves, so he throws himself off the futon and onto his feet, stumbling off in search of a car to curl up in.  Bucky’s gone when he’s clambered inside and turns to find him.

 

——

 

They don’t talk about it, but something considerably dangerous shifts between them.

 

Bucky knows the secret now, knows that Tony is as angry with himself as he is with Bucky, and that knowledge sends several furious cracking lines across the thin surface of the barely there ice they’re treading across.

 

And so, he does the only reasonable thing left, and starts digging.  It’s surprisingly easier said than done.  Steve is already in Cap mode when he finds him, on the phone with Ross and dealing with the fallout from something.  He’s just come up from the gym, dressed in tight-fitting pants and an even tighter shirt, and Bucky appreciates the shoulder to waist ratio as he watches him pace.  To further his chances, he makes tea, Wanda’s voice a little noise in his head as he makes it, telling him where everything is and how to use it.

 

When Steve sits down across from him, after a curt closing pleasantry with the general, he gratefully accepts the tea.  “Everything okay?” Bucky asks.

 

Because Steve’s a saint, and also an asshole, he says, “Yeah, nothing to worry about.  You have that face on—what’s up?”

 

Bucky allows a smile.  “I was just wondering about next steps, you know.  Trying to integrate a little more.”

 

“Buck—”

 

“I think it would be good,” Bucky says quickly, “As does Sam.  Group is helping, but—well, he and I both think being more involved with the team would be good.  He told me what you were like at first, not knowing what to do with yourself.  I need to keep busy.”

 

It’s bringing up his own struggles that does it because Steve nods and says, “Yeah, okay.  That was—god, it was the worst readjustment period of my life.  I couldn’t figure out how to live in my own skin.”  Bucky just nods, still smiling.  “What did you have in mind?” Steve asks.

 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, plays it cool.  “I don’t really know what I’m up against,” he says.

 

Because Steve’s an asshole, but also incredibly perceptive, he guesses, “Access to our network?”  When Bucky’s smile turns sheepish, Steve rolls his eyes and punches his shoulder.  “Fine, but if you comment on my fighting techniques later, I’ll have your head.”

 

“You can 100% count on it,” Bucky says because even if his plan is to do recon, he’s absolutely going to fully utilize this newfound freedom.

 

He starts with Bruce because that seems fairly safe, and Bruce is the one he talks to least, though the one, he thinks, he should be talking to the most.  Both Nat and Steve seem to go to him for everything, and he’s heard horror tales about his sessions with Tony, but his cool, even demeanor continues to leave Bucky curious.

 

He really wishes he had started somewhere else.  He picks the absolute worst location to be when he clicks into the file about Robert Banner—in the kitchen while Bruce is cooking something delicious smelling.

 

“He just left you in there?” Bucky says because he’s really never known how to keep his mouth shut.

 

He can see the confusion settle in Bruce’s shoulders before he turns, one hand still holding onto the skillet.  “Come again?” Bruce says.

 

“He knew perfectly well what all that gamma radiation could have caused,” Bucky says, and Bruce’s eyes widen a fraction.  “I mean, come on,” Bucky continues, brandishing a hand at him, “That’s not cool.”

 

“No,” Bruce agrees, “Very not cool, indeed.”  He looks thoroughly bewildered.

 

“Do you still talk to Betty, at least?”

 

Bruce turns fully at this, blinking at him.  His bewilderment is starting to look a little more like amusement, and he’s potentially halfway to a smile when he says, “Every week.  We’re—vocal pen pals, Tony calls it.”

 

“You should invite her up sometime, I’m sure there’s enough room in this massive thing—structure—compound?”

 

“Compound,” Bruce agrees, “Are you reading my file?”

 

“Bingo,” Bucky says, and goes back to reading.

 

He pauses only when Bruce lets out an honest to god laugh, something Bucky’s not sure he’s ever heard, though when he looks up, he’s turned back to the stove and resumed his cooking.  Fifteen minutes later, there’s an omelet in front of him that has demolished the taste buds of lesser men, and his eyes even water a bit, but he’s grinning at Bruce because good  _grief_ , it’s the best food he’s had in a long time.

 

“The fuck you put in here, a ghost pepper?” Bucky says as he reaches for his water.

 

“Milk would be better,” Bruce says, already getting up.  He returns with two classes of soy milk, of all things, but Bucky chokes it down and keeps on eating.  “Spices help,” Bruce says at length, “I couldn’t say why, but they remind me of this body.”

 

“Is Hulk a separate entity?” Bucky asks, tapping his temple with the edge of his fork.

 

“I’m not sure anymore,” Bruce admits, “Tony and I have been working pretty closely with him lately, and he’s starting to show more and more signs of—well, of me.”

 

“That’s awesome, right?” Bucky says, “Good for you.  Steps in the right direction and all that jazz.”

 

“Oh, there’s a good one for you,  _Chicago_.”

 

“The city?”

 

“The musical.”

 

“I love musicals,” Bucky says immediately, “Steve was showing me this clip from  _Lion_ _King_  on Broadway the other day.  I’d kill to go to something like that.”

 

“Really?” Bruce says, his expression belaying his surprise, “That could be easily arranged.”

 

“Do they have a Broadway here?” Bucky asks, uncertain.

 

“Bucky,” Bruce says, smiling widely.

 

“Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that, I thought they were only in London,” Bucky says, frowning at his omelet.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, “It’s just—London and New York are the only places that have theatres like that.  Here—Friday, can you check to see if  _Lion_ _King_  is playing soon?”

 

“Of course, Doctor Banner,” Friday says.

 

“Doctor?” Bucky asks, “Of?”

 

“Science,” Bruce says, “But don’t let that fool you, I’m also an unlicensed therapist.”

 

Bucky smiles, and then Friday informs them of the current schedule for the  _Lion_ _King_ , and they start planning an outing.

 

Bucky skips Nat.  He’s played that game more than a few times, and he doesn’t want to go poking around there.  He thinks, too, that he already knows most of it.  He reads up on Clint, though nothing there surprises him as Clint is always talking about his past and sharing stories.  He does, however, make a note to use ASL more around him, and he notices how much happier his smiles look whenever he does so.

 

He does, indeed, watch a few of Steve’s videos, stops halfway through the third, and yanks him downstairs, kicking his feet apart.  “Alright, soldier,” he says, lifting his fists, “Let’s tango.”  Thirty minutes and a laugh so hard that his belly aches, he says, “Oh my god, did no one ever teach you how to fight, you crazy motherfucker?”

 

“You’re the one on the ground,” Steve says, still laughing as he pulls Bucky to his feet.

 

“Yeah, cos you just—Jesus Christ, you fucking back flipped and, I dunno—did a pirouette?  Seriously, who taught you to fight?”

 

“No one,” Steve admits, “Everyone always figured I already knew how when I finally got to the army since the serum did all the other work, so I just—taught myself.”

 

“You’re my favorite,” Bucky says honestly, “Okay.  I’m good.  Go again.  I’m going to teach you a few things.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Steve says, and ten minutes later, he’s on his ass.

 

“See,” Bucky says, “That’s how you deflect a pirouette.”

 

He knows jack shit about Scott, but his file is everything he already guessed, so it’s a breeze flipping through.  He does, however, pause at the bit about Wasp, and, the next time Scott’s around, he asks him as many questions as he can think of about her abilities.

 

He’s heard a few stories about Riley, read pieces of Sam’s file here and there, but when he gets to it in full, something yawns open in his chest, and he hates everything and everyone all over again.  Sam knows the second he sees him, and so he says, “Dude, come on, no.  Let’s not do this.  Wanna watch a movie instead?”

 

“Something awful,” Bucky says, so Sam puts on  _Brave_  and lets Bucky curl up against his side, tangling their fingers together.

 

He skips over Peter, knows that story because there’s barely one, and is about to move onto Rhodey when Steve sees what he’s doing and says, “No way.  Everyone gets a fair look, and there’s more to him than meets the eye.”  He leans over, tapping back into Peter’s file, and that’s why he ends up hurling a butter knife through the air with perfect precision the next time Peter’s over, who ducks, grabs it, and whips it back before Bucky’s even registered he’s moved.

 

“That was rude,” Peter says as he turns, and then freezes.  “Oh my god,” he says slowly, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“I’m not a ghost story,” Bucky says because Peter looks like he’s on the bad end of a horror movie.

 

“Not true,” Peter says, and then pitches his voice so high, Bucky’s not sure who he’s trying to imitate until he hears the words, “They call him the Winter Soldier.  He’s a ghost.”

 

“No, that was rude,” Bucky says, “Don’t ever let Tasha hear you do that.”

 

“Steve did it first,” Peter confesses.

 

“How old are you, pipsqueak?” Bucky asks.

 

“Older than—yeah, no one.”  Peter deflates.  “How old do I look?”

 

“Twelve.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Listen, I grew up with Steve, you’re going to have to do better than that, punk.”

 

“I’m twenty-five,” Peter says, and then groans loudly as Friday starts playing something truly terrible over the sound system.  “Tony, no!” Peter yells, “Not fair!”

 

“You were the one that rigged her to play shitty music,” Tony mutters darkly, “You can undo that bit of programming yourself.”

 

Peter shakes a fist at the ceiling.  Bucky snorts, and says, “Fists of doom,” and Peter dissolves into a fit of giggles.

 

The microwave interrupts them, signaling the end of Peter’s popcorn, and he tosses the hot bag between hands until he’s opened it into a bowl before he asks, “Ever seen _Doctor_ _Who_?”

 

“What is it?” Bucky asks, already getting up.

 

“BBC scifi,” Peter says, and Bucky’s grin is wide and excited.

 

When, eventually, he does get to Rhodey’s file—and subsequently, Tony’s—it’s a little harrowing.  Rhodey’s is easy enough to get through, though the brief mention of the Afghanistan rescue mission is a breadcrumb that he follows all the way to Tony being water boarded.

 

He gets within eleven seconds of one of the torture videos, throws his tablet to the other side of the sofa, and closes his eyes, counting each inhalation and exhalation.

 

When he feels a little more secure in his skin, Bucky decides to look death in the face and goes down into the lab.

 

“Nope,” Tony says before he’s even gotten his hand to the door to knock.  Bruce is there, which may be why the door opens.  “You’re banished,” Tony says, throwing something in Bruce’s general direction without looking up.  It sails right on past Bruce, who turns a smile to Bucky.

 

“How can we help you?” he asks.

 

“I, uh—I tried to come down a few weeks ago,” Bucky says, and now, Tony looks up.  His eyes don’t hold a glare just yet, but there’s something else there that Bucky can’t identify, and so he swallows down the remark about Tony’s alcohol intake that day and instead says, shrugging his left shoulder, “Been bugging me.”

 

“That’s your area of expertise, sorry,” Bruce says, gaze shifting to Tony before he turns back to the complicated lines of code he’s studying.

 

“You’re lucky my handler is in here,” Tony says, and Bruce barks out an empty laugh.  “Sit down.”

 

Tony works without speaking, attaching a few different wires to the metal arm and reading through projections that Friday pulls up, though a few of his frowns let Bucky know that he’s not happy about the craftsmanship of it.  Finally, he says, “This thing is a piece of dung.  Hydra sucks.”

 

Bucky thinks now’s as good a time as any, so he says, “So do the Ten Rings.”  Tony’s hand stops where his fingers circle Bucky’s wrist, and he doesn’t look at him.  He feels like it’s justified when he continues, “Did they really hook a car battery to your chest?”

 

Bruce is too far away to hear, though Bucky’s keeping his voice low, and when Tony finally straightens and looks at him, Bucky catches how he’s not breathing.  “All our shit,” Bucky says, uncurling his left hand with some difficulty, “out on the table.  They, uh—they once put me in this box, right.  It was small, smaller than—shit, than I can even remember.  They’d been starving me for weeks, and then put me in this fucking box.  Every time I touched one of the walls, I was treated to 25 milliamps of electricity.”

 

“Not bad,” Tony says, and his exhale comes out sharp.

 

“I was in there for a week,” Bucky continues, though his mouth feels swollen, like his tongue has dried out, “for the first time.  After that, they put me in a bigger box, made me feel like I had a little bit of a safety net.  I rolled over one night.  At 125 milliamps, sometimes you can’t let go.”

 

Tony nods.  “I know,” he says.

 

“Does it still hurt?” Bucky asks.

 

“All the time.”

 

——

 

Halloween is in four days when he reads Wanda’s file, and he’s so angry by what he finds there that he asks her to show him her favorite horror films.  It promises disaster, but she is nothing if not a wholly good person, and she doesn’t play a single potentially triggering movie.  Instead, they watch old, black and white films where the zombies walk, the audio doesn’t always match with the mouths, and there are plenty of evil laughs.  Bucky is eternally grateful for this, and he shows it by making hot chocolate on the second night.  It’s from scratch, and possibly has way more chocolate than is strictly necessary, but Wanda beams when she finds him and immediately goes to find whipped cream.

 

She makes some bizarre dessert for them on the third night, which he positively _loves_ , and then, on Halloween, they cook together, creating a feast that brings every stray in.  Steve is there first, looking weary and like he hasn’t slept in a few days.

 

“Hey,” Bucky says as he watches him sit down, “You okay?”

 

Steve nods slowly, offering him a barely there smile.  “Just tired,” he says.

 

Bucky turns away from the stove, and Wanda shouts in _Romanian_ at him, “Ai grijă să nu arzi sosul!  **Be careful so you won't burn the sauce!** ”

 

“Scuze!  **Sorry!** ” Bucky says on instinct, immediately turning back.

 

Wanda stares at him.  “Tu vorbesti limba romana?  **You speak Romanian?** ” she asks.

 

When Bucky nods, her smile is impossibly wider, and that pushes Steve’s tired eyes away for the time being.  Clint and Sam show up next, jostling each other as they discuss a ping pong tournament they’ve been apparently holding, and, before long, everyone has joined them, sitting around the table as Peter starts setting the table.

 

“Where did you come from?” Rhodey says when he spots him.

 

“Tony kicked me out,” Peter says, and that’s when it’s made apparent that Tony won’t be joining them.  Bruce only stays long enough to eat and chat for a bit, and then he’s making a plate to take down to him, not commenting on his absence.

 

“We’re watching _World War Z_ if anyone wants to join us,” Wanda says as Clint starts cleaning up.

 

“Are you sure about that?” Nat asks, glancing at Bucky.

 

“I’m sitting right here, and I could snap your wrist clean off,” Bucky says.

 

“You could try,” Nat says, “I’m game.  Steve?”

 

“Sure,” Steve says, getting up from the table to help Clint before he starts making tea.

 

 _World War Z_ is nothing short of a bad idea.  Bucky enjoys it immensely, as does Clint if his quiet running commentary is anything to go by.  Sam’s already seen it, but gets excited all over again, and Steve looks like he might vomit.

 

When he gets up, no one moves to follow, and so Bucky slips out after him, though his exit draws a few glances, which surprises him.  He finds Steve out in the hall, sitting with his legs crossed and head tipped back.  He drops down beside him silently, lays their knees together, and frowns when Steve doesn’t respond.

 

“No more bullshitting,” Bucky says, “Are you okay?”

 

Steve slowly shakes his head.  “It doesn’t compare,” he says at length.

 

Bucky understands immediately, and almost hits him.  “You’re a fucking asshole,” he snaps, and Steve smiles before he turns his head, leaning his cheek against the wall as he looks at Bucky.  “That’s just rude,” he continues, leaning their shoulders together.

 

“It doesn’t,” Steve says, “What you’ve been through—”

 

“It’s not a fucking competition, Steve,” Bucky says, “God, you still have such a thick goddamn skull.”

 

“Don’t swear at me,” Steve says, reaching out.  He pauses midair, dropping his hand back into his lap.

 

“I’m not going to break,” Bucky says, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together, dropping it onto their knees, “You can stop treating me like a mental case.”

 

“Aren’t we all?” Steve says.

 

“When was the last time you slept?” Bucky asks.

 

“Two—no, three days.”

 

“Come on,” Bucky says, squeezing his hand, “I’ll come with you.”

 

“When’s the last time you slept?” Steve asks, not letting Bucky move them.

 

“I don’t,” Bucky says, “Wastin’ too much time making sure your sorry ass is taken care of.”

 

“Buck.”

 

“Steven.”

 

“Don’t be petulant.  Be honest with me.”

 

Bucky sighs, runs metal fingers through his hair.  “Properly?  Five days,” he says, and then adds at Steve’s appalled expression, “I nap.”

 

“That doesn’t count.  Eight hours.”

 

“Out of the question.”

 

“This hallway’s nice,” Steve says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

 

“Did the serum amplify everything, dickwad?” he mutters before he gets to his feet, hauling Steve up with him, who just grins and lets himself be led away.

 

Bucky can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Steve jerk back to consciousness after a nightmare on this side of the century, only needs one finger to count the amount of times he’s witnessed him dissociate.

 

He should have fucking seen it coming.

 

It’s the dead of night.  Not a single other sane soul should be awake at 2:36 in the morning, but the rest of the team are masochists and decided to scare themselves shitless into the wee hours of the morning, so they’re currently watching a high jacked version of the _Blair Witch Project_ sequel when Steve comes roaring awake.

 

Bucky’s up and out of the bed in seconds, dropping to the floor as he yanks a gun out from under Steve’s bed, and then he looks up and remembers where he is.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, forcing himself to straighten and rise.

 

Steve is breathing hard, his chest caving painfully on every exhale, and it takes Bucky another two times saying his name before Steve looks at him.  “Shit,” Bucky says.

 

Those are his eyes, dead and unseeing and _confused_.

 

Bucky looks around, tries to find a trigger quickly, and notices the window open, curtains fluttering in a breeze.  It’s freezing in the room, and they’re in for a bad winter, but it brings Bucky right back to the cold of the cyro, and he shakes his head, looks back at Steve.

 

Steve, who was frozen in ice for 70 years.

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Steve scrambles from the bed, backing toward the window.  “It’s fine,” Bucky says over his shoulder, not looking away from Steve, who continues to back away until another gust of wind curls around the room, and he stops dead, this awful noise cracking out of him.

 

Steve’s gaze shifts to the door and back.  “Steve,” he says softly, “It’s okay.  Look at me.”

 

Steve looks at the door, which is opening.  “We heard a noise,” Wanda says.

 

Bucky swears, Steve runs, and Wanda yelps, jumping out of the way.  “Block him!” Bucky shouts even as he follows him out, pulling Wanda with him to block the hallway behind Steve as Nat assesses the situation, sees everything, and drops into a fighting stance.

 

“Steve,” Nat begins.

 

Someone sets off a firework outside.

 

Bucky staggers and drops, one knee hitting the floor as his metal fingers curl into a fist.  “Not right now,” Nat’s furious voice cuts through him, “Get up.”

 

His head jerks to the side, tossing the memories back, and he hones in on Steve, focuses on the way his shoulders are hiked up by his ears, feet spread too wide, nails biting into his palms.  He pushes off the ground, lunging at Steve, and tackles him, ducking two blows before he rolls and pins him, metal fingers closing around one of his wrists as his knee drops onto his other forearm.

 

“Look at me,” he commands, and Steve’s blue eyes snap up to meet his brown ones.  “Breathe,” he says.

 

Steve holds his breath.

 

“You stubborn fucking asshole,” Bucky sighs, reaching up his free hand to curl it around Steve’s jaw, “Look at me, and breathe.”

 

Steve shakes his head, but there’s something dawning in his gaze.

 

“There you are,” Bucky says softly, thumb curling in slow circles around Steve’s cheek.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Tony’s voice filters through.

 

“Please,” Steve chokes out, “Let me go.”

 

“What the fuck!”

 

“Tony, no,” Rhodey says, grabbing him, “Hang on.”

 

“Look at me,” Bucky says, index finger inching up to press against Steve’s temple, massaging lightly there, “Come on, just me.  Focus.”

 

“Please,” Steve whispers.

 

“Where are you?” Bucky asks.  Steve closes his eyes.  “Tell me,” Bucky says, “Where are you?”

 

“No,” Steve says, though it’s more his mouth shaping the word than any sound coming out.

 

“Sorry, wrong answer,” Bucky says, tapping the center of his forehead until Steve opens his eyes, “Where are you?”

 

“Austria,” Steve says.

 

“Jesus,” Bucky says because that rips something open in him, “Try again.”  Steve inhales slowly.  “Good,” Bucky says, “Where are you?”

 

“New York,” Steve says.

 

“What is my name?”

 

Steve closes his eyes, shakes his head.  It takes him a second, but then he says, “Bucky.  _God_ , if I had just gotten there sooner.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, dropping his forehead against Steve’s, “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“I was a fucking dancing monkey while you were being strapped down and tortured.”

 

“Hey,” Bucky says, trying to lighten his tone, “The worst was yet to come.  It’s not your fault, Steve.”

 

“I didn’t even ask you about it,” Steve says, opening his eyes, “I just expected you to plunge back in.”

 

“I wouldn’t have told you anything, and you know that,” Bucky says, straightening, “You good?”

 

Steve nods slowly, and Bucky waits until he’s convinced before he gets up, holding out a hand.  Steve allows himself to be pulled to his feet, and when Bucky turns, expecting to see the team, no one is there.

 

For a second, he’s terrified he hallucinated them, and then he notices Wanda’s hand curled around the doorframe and one her eyes peering out at them, and he nods once before steering Steve back toward his room.

 

He manages to get Steve to sleep, but he listens to the chaos of Halloween pass them by until the sun is rising.

 

In the morning, Bucky has to coax Steve awake and out of bed.  He makes him shower, sits on the toilet and talks to him while he does so, and then tells him to get dressed while he forces himself to leave.  His shoulders are tight enough to hurt until Steve pads into the kitchen and sits at the island, dropping his head into his arms.

 

Bucky turns just as Wanda is flitting in, and he watches her press a soft kiss to the top of Steve’s ear before she drops into the seat next to him and smiles at Bucky.  He makes enough eggs for the three of them, and they eat in a comfortable, warm silence until Steve says, “Last week for apple picking.”

 

“Barely,” Bucky says, and it pulls at Steve’s mouth.

 

“Still,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, “Wanna go?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Absolutely.  Wanda?”

 

“I’ve never been apple picking before,” she admits, “Do you just—literally pick apples?”

 

“Oh, it’s so much more fun than that,” Steve says, brightening, “I’ll shoot off a message to everyone else, see if they want to join.”

 

At first, only a few of the team agree to join, but seven words from Bruce convinces them that they don’t have a choice in the matter, and they better be ready in a half hour, _shut up, and put on something warm._

Because they share a suite, Bucky can easily grab clothes and come back to Steve’s room, stealing his toothbrush and asking him enough questions that he’s starting to feel a little frayed at the edges until Steve gets the hint and carries on the conversation.  He’s barely catnapped in his five days, and now, after last night, he’s working on about three hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, and he’s nervous about what that means for his head.  And so, he uses one of Sam’s physical tactics and puts on his favorite clothes, makes himself secure in his body so he can use it to ground back down.

 

He wears his favorite pair of jeans, tearing at one of the knees and a little tighter than normal, just enough that Steve laughs when he yanks them on.  He pulls on a forest green thermal, a brown and green flannel over that, and then yanks on his boots, tying them while he watches Steve glare at two different blue shirts.

 

“The dark one,” Bucky says, so Steve picks the light one, _of course_.  His jeans are wonderful to behold, and Bucky gets distracted by his ass when he walks by.

 

“Stop it,” Steve says.

 

“Dude, seriously,” Bucky sighs, turning back to his boots, “That’s unfair.”

 

They finish getting ready, moving around each other, and Bucky’s just hunting down a hair tie when Steve’s fingers circle his wrist, and he tugs him until Bucky turns.  Steve steps close, winding his arms around him, and Bucky stiffens for a moment, not sure how to reciprocate until Steve says, “Thought you weren’t breakable,” and Bucky almost bites him.  Instead, he carefully returns the embrace, fingers pressed warmly against Steve’s back.  “Thank you,” Steve whispers, the words exhaling hot against Bucky’s neck as Steve turns his face in against him to hide.

 

“Hey, of course,” Bucky says, tightening his hold.

 

“Steve!  Bucky!” Clint shrieks, “We’re ready!”

 

Steve laughs, pulling apart and going to hunt down his jacket while Bucky just watches him.  “Let’s go, he’ll come busting in here and make some awfully lewd comment,” Steve says.

 

Bucky forgoes the hair tie search as a lost cause, grabs his favorite leather jacket, and follows Steve out of the room, who takes a black band from around his wrist as they’re walking down the hall and hands it to him.

 

“Green looks good on you,” Tony says when they catch up with everyone loitering in the garage, “Better than the blood of your enemies.”

 

“Oh my god,” Steve mutters under his breath.

 

“I was never careless enough to let them bleed on me,” Bucky says.

 

“Oh my god,” Steve says, a little louder this time.

 

“Shotgun,” Sam says to diffuse the situation.

 

“Bet you my aim is better,” Bucky says, knocking shoulders with him as he heads over to one of the cars.

 

“Bet you that you murder us in our sleep one day,” Tony says.

 

Bucky tosses a lethal grin over his shoulder.  “You’ll be last.”

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs.

 

When they get in the car, they all realize they have absolutely no idea where one does things like apple picking, but Friday quickly remedies that for them, and Steve follows her directions while Tony tries to pick a fight with her.

 

Because the world is a cruel place, Bucky’s ended up sitting next to him, and he does his best to keep all his arms and legs in his own space, carefully avoiding Tony’s gaze.  His intention is never to actually wage a war against Tony, but he’s so used to bickering with Steve that it feels natural to rise to his fire.  He knows, though, that Tony carries his hate with every ounce of truth behind it whereas Bucky is just— _being_.

 

And so, he can’t understand what’s happening when Tony says, “Alright, truce?”  He blinks and doesn’t respond because there’s no way that’s directed at him until Tony continues, ”Buckaroo, talking to you.”

 

“What?” Bucky says, turning to him, “You can’t be serious.”

 

“It’s clearly stressing Cap out.”

 

Bucky studies him for a long moment before he slowly nods, holds out his hand, and is promptly electrocuted when Tony shakes his hand.  It’s little, nothing meant to injure, but instead, meant to trigger, and Bucky chokes on his next inhale, yanking his hand back and dropping his eyes.

 

To his utter shock and horror, one of Sam’s hands snakes forward, tugs at his shirt sleeve until he drops his hand back, and he twines their fingers together, helping him focus.  He thinks he can feel the sheer force of Sam’s anger even as he tries to stamp it down because, when they get out of the car, Sam hits Tony before he can.

 

“Wilson!” Tony yelps, quickly stepping back, “What the fuck?”

 

“What the _fuck_?” Sam echoes, his voice dropping low and furious, “I don’t care _what_ he did to you, you just purposefully created a trigger for a recovering veteran.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Steve says, turning.

 

“It’s nothing,” Bucky says quickly, reaching for Sam and shaking his head once at Steve, “Tony’s just being an asshole, I’m fine.”

 

Sam is raging when he looks at him.  “He—”

 

“Sam,” Bucky says quietly, “Please.  Let it go.”

 

Sam’s next breath is loud and angry, but then he swallows it down, throws on a smile, and walks away.

 

“Veteran?  Is that what you’re going with?” Tony snarls, “Looks like dishonorable discharge to me.”

 

Bucky hears the awful, tearing, animalistic noise that he makes, but doesn’t recall giving his body permission to do so, nor does he particularly remember the decision to move his feet and hit Tony hard enough that he staggers back and drops to a knee to avoid falling on his ass.

 

“Wanna say that to my face, you fucking wind-up toy?” Bucky growls.

 

Tony spits, blood hitting the ground, before he throws himself back to his feet and says, “Sure, you made a difference in the war.  You betrayed all of your friends and killed people you had pledged your life to serve.  Bet you would have killed Steve given the chance.”

 

_Kill Steve Rogers.  Make it bloody._

 

Bucky looks away from Tony quickly, draws a slow breath, pushing the order from his head.

 

“Oh wait,” Tony says, “That’s right.  You tried to, and you failed.”

 

Bucky can hear voices, thinks one of them might be Steve’s, but he can’t decipher the words.  He looks back up as his left fingers twist and curl together.  He shakes his head, holding Tony’s gaze.  “I’m not rising to your bait,” he says, and walks away.

 

He passes Steve, whose expression of awe is turning into a ridiculous smile, and Nat, who looks like she might murder Tony for him.  “Ты в порядке?  **Are you okay?** ” she whispers on his way by.

 

He knows that she’s just trying to help, to give him something else to hold onto, but the Russian strikes a chord deeper than Tony’s words, and Bucky can’t breathe.

 

“You’re here,” Sam says, the words dull around the edges until he takes one of Bucky’s hands, his other hand curling around his bicep and pulling him back, “Stay with me.”

 

“Barnes,” a barely familiar voice says in front of him.  Rhodey is standing in front of him when he lifts his gaze; at least, he thinks it’s Rhodey, but his face is coming in and out of focus.  And then, he does the strangest thing—he hands him an apple.

 

Bucky takes it with his metal hand, blinking, and somehow, it does the trick, pulls him right back, reminds him where he is and what they’re doing and why he belongs here.  “Thank you,” he says, and Rhodey seems to realize he’s thanking him for more than the apple.

 

For the rest of the day, Tony avoids him, but he has more support than he’s expecting, Steve, Sam, and Wanda sticking close.  Nat disappears halfway through, dragging Bruce with her, only to return with an armful of hot, fresh cider for all of them, and it warms him to the core.

 

They wait in line for cider donuts after they’re finished picking their apples, and Tony buys them more donuts than they can possibly eat, so Steve, Bucky, and Clint consider it a challenge and demolish half the bag between them.  “Aw, I miss Thor,” Clint says halfway through.

 

“He said he’d drop by around Thanksgiving,” Nat says, “Cited never having experienced a Thanksgiving before, though he also said he couldn’t stay long because the festivities upstairs were amazing for Christmas, and he had to help out.”

 

“Norse Yule is balls to the wall,” Bucky agrees.

 

“We should have our own Christmas Thing,” Steve says, “Maybe go somewhere?”

 

“Forced family fun time,” Sam chimes in through a mouthful of donut.

 

Bucky darts for him, and Sam lets himself be drawn into a loose headlock so he can jab him sharply in the side.  Bucky releases him in time for Wanda to say, “Or we could stay home and decorate the mansion.”

 

“Compound,” Tony corrects.

 

“No, that’s the boring half,” Wanda says, “I mean our half, where we live.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says, shrugging, “I don’t see why not.  We’ll start drawing up plans when we get back.”

 

“Which is when?” Rhodey asks, glancing at his phone, “Ross has been calling.”

 

“Oh gross,” Tony says, snatching the phone from Rhodey because it’s his, and he was sick of listening to it buzz.

 

He dials him back, and so they head for the car, letting Tony’s voice fade as background noise as he argues with the general because Bucky just asked, “Why exactly do we trust him?”

 

“I second that inquiry,” Bruce says quickly, surprising them all.

 

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says, looking to him, “Exactly.  He tried to recreate you and nearly broke Harlem.”

 

“Ah,” Bruce says, wincing, “That was me.”

 

“Nah, man, I saw those clips, that was whatshisface.”

 

Bruce sighs.  “Ross called him Abomination.”

 

“That’s rough,” Sam says, “Who’s this now?”

 

Bruce glances at Bucky, unsure if he really understands what can he’s opening up, but Bucky just shrugs, looking honestly concerned, so Bruce says, “General Ross and I don’t see eye to eye.”

 

“Clarification: he wants you dead,” Nat says.

 

“He tried to create another Hulk,” Rhodey says, “Right?”

 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Bucky says, “You ever seen pictures of that guy?”

 

“I have,” Rhodey says, “It amplified all the wrong features.”

 

“Not a perfect soldier, but a good man,” Steve says softly, “Those are the qualities people like Ross forget to look for.”

 

“So again,” Bucky says, “Why exactly do we trust him?  More importantly, why does _he_?”  He jabs a thumb over his shoulder in Tony’s direction, who’s making a face at his phone before he hangs up.

 

“They share common interests,” Steve says, his voice tight, and the conversation comes to an end when Tony rejoins them.

 

Bucky frowns, glancing first at Tony and then over at Bruce, who doesn’t meet his gaze.  However, when they get back to the car, Bruce shoves Tony into the back and takes the seat next to Bucky.  “How’s Betty?” he asks once they’re on the road.

 

Bruce smiles, tracing the rim of his cider cup.  “She’s good,” he says, “She, uh—she might be coming up soon.”

 

“That’s awesome,” Bucky says, smiling, “Told you, man.  It’ll do you good to see her.”

 

Bruce nods, looking over at him.  “Thanks for the push.”

 

Bucky just shrugs one shoulder and settles in for the ride.

 

——

 

Tony’s been back in the lab for twenty minutes before Sam actually breaks in, throws the nearest object at him, which he doesn’t see coming and gets hit with squarely in the head, and says, “Alright, shitbrains, let’s hash this out.”

 

“Fuck you,” Tony says, “Get out.”

 

“Not happening,” Sam says, striding across the lab.  When he reaches Tony, he grabs a chair and sits opposite him.

 

“Friday, please remind Wilson what happens to intruders.”

 

“My apologies, Mister Stark, all defensive protocols have been taken offline.”

 

“Are you fucking serious?” Tony says, spinning to look for Bruce.

 

“Doctor Banner is upstairs, sir, but he asked me to relay a message.”

 

“Let’s have it,” Tony says through gritted teeth, turning back to Sam.

 

“He wished me to inform you that you behaved disrespectfully, and thus, all privileges to be treated like an adult rather than like a child have been hereby revoked.”

 

“Do you actually think what you did was okay?” Sam asks, letting his voice drop into something even and curious rather than accusatory.

 

“He—”

 

“Soldier to soldier,” Sam cuts him off, “Was that okay?”  Tony frowns at him.  “If I dumped a bucket of water on your head, would that be okay?”

 

“Fuck you,” Tony says.

 

“Exactly.  It’s a trigger for you.  How often do you take a long shower?  Never.  Personal hygiene is important, clearly, since that’s the only thing you regularly remember to take care of, but it terrifies you, to be in there for too long.  As a prank, if I came up and dumped a bucket of water on you, you’d probably drop right into panic mode.  Am I wrong?”

 

“No,” Tony says softly, looking down at his lap.

 

“Okay, so clearly Bucky told you about the box, maybe as some way to shed some light on what they did to him, maybe to help you understand that he was no longer in his right mind after what Hydra put him through, without having to actually say to you, _hey, it wasn’t me, I was brainwashed_.  And what did you do?  You put a fucking prank buzzer on your hand and tried to call a truce with him.  That kind of action triggers him right back to that fucking box, reminds him what it was like to be electrocuted simply for, what?  Rolling over?  And then you bring up him trying to kill Steve, which was a direct fucking order, so you drop him back into the Winter Soldier mindset even further.  Think about that, Tony.”

 

“I—” but Tony can’t continue, can’t do anything but think about the way the water had sloshed around in his lungs before he could finally cough it back up.

 

“Okay,” Sam continues, scooting closer and grabbing a nearby bottle of water.  He makes Tony take a sip before he goes on, “You know it wasn’t his fault.”

 

Tony stares at him, bites his lip hard enough that it might break, might spill blood into his mouth, and then Sam takes one of his hands, and that startles him enough into saying, “Yes.”

 

“Can you tell me why you’re so upset?” Sam asks.

 

“They were my parents,” Tony says, “Why does no one—”

 

“I understand,” Sam says quickly, “I know.  It was awful.  I’m so sorry, Tony.”

 

“I—” but again, he can’t continue, can’t find the words that want to rip him apart with their anger.

 

“No one can ever remove that stain from your soul,” Sam says, “No one can ever make that better, and it is the worst thing in the world.  Someone took them from you, and then made you watch it happen, years later, when the wound had festered, split it wide open again.”

 

“This isn’t helping,” Tony says.

 

“Why are you so upset?” Sam asks again.

 

Tony looks away, closing his eyes as the image replays in his mind over and over and over and over and—

 

“She loved you, Tony,” Sam says, “You know that.”

 

“I know,” he barely manages to get out.

 

“She’s still with you, right here, right now.  Can you look at me?”

 

Tony shakes his head, and Sam gently pressures his hand until he does, desperately swallowing back his sorrow.

 

“I want you to know that you’re in a safe space.  Nothing that transpires between us will leave this moment, but right now, right here, you are safe.  Anything that needs to happen, anything you need to say, any—” Sam breaks off with a soft exhale when Tony’s head drops, his shoulders hitching up.

 

“Can I ask you a favor?” Sam says.  Tony shakes his head.  “I’m going to anyway, okay?”  Tony nods, keeping his gaze down.  “Can you please come talk to me when it gets too loud up there?”

 

“I’m not a soldier,” Tony says, immediately looking back up at him, and Sam frowns at the way his eyes are red but dry, at the tears he refuses to let go of, “I don’t need you.”

 

“Looks like you’re fighting to me,” Sam says, “Please?”

 

“He— _murdered_ them.  In cold blood,” Tony pleads.

 

“How do you think he’s processing that right now?  Howard was one of his best friends.  Can I let you in on a secret?  He’s not doing well.  I know he gives you back as good as you’re giving, I know he laughs and he’s interacting with the team, but he is a fucking mess, and he won’t forgive himself.  I’m not asking you to be the stronger or bigger person, I’m not asking you to forgive him, I’m just asking you to come to me when you want to strangle him instead of pushing him further back.  I need you to redirect your anger, give it to me, and let me deal with it so I can keep helping him, too.  That’s all.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, low enough that Sam almost doesn’t catch it.

 

“I’ll pass on the message,” Sam says, giving Tony’s hand a last squeeze before he releases it, “Is it okay if I leave now?”  Tony nods slowly, so Sam gives him a reassuring smile and gets up, taking his time exiting the lab.

 

When he’s gone, he makes sure not to glance back at Tony as he takes the stairs, and then he’s following a well worn path to Steve and Bucky’s suite.  When he knocks, Bucky doesn’t answer, so he steps inside, follows the sound of water into the bathroom, and frowns when he finds Bucky curled up in the corner of his shower, shaking.  He strips down to his boxers, opens the door, and sits opposite him, waiting for him to look up before he says, “So Bruce tells me we’re going to see _Lion King_ on Broadway soon.”

 

——

 

In the near month between Halloween and Thanksgiving, Tony manages to avoid Bucky altogether.  He doesn’t know how he does it, just knows that he spends approximately 24 ½ days without ever having to see his face.  In that time, he also manages to go toe to toe with Von Doom and mangle one of his suits so badly, he thinks he may just have to start from scratch, allows Peter to invite Johnny over to the lab and smiles when they flail about together, talking at a hundred miles an hour, convinces Betty to stay until after Christmas, and subsequently watches his best friend transform into a happier version of himself than he’s ever seen, has a week-long stint where he sleeps once and naps when Jarvis makes him, programming so much that he has to take a break when one of his hands cramps up, and, once, has the audacity to go into cardiac arrest.

 

It’s after the battle with Von Doom, when he’s standing in the middle of his suit, which is spread in pieces around him, that he gets a text from Peter, _hey pops, cool if I bring a friend over?_

He makes a face at the usage of pops, but fires off a quick response, and twenty minutes later, Peter’s letting Johnny Storm into the lab, who all but gapes for three full minutes before he says, “This is the coolest day of my life.  Hi, holy shit, you’re so awesome,” he says when Peter walks him over to where Tony’s still frowning.

 

“Tony Stark,” Tony introduces, holding out a hand.

 

“Johnny Storm, wow,” Johnny says, and Tony laughs at his stupid grin, “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

 

“You, as well.  You did good out there today.  Bruce would _love_ to get a sample of your blood.”

 

“He’s not lying,” Bruce says from somewhere deep in the lab.

 

“Oh no,” Johnny says, his excitement level somehow shooting up higher, “I’m gonna explode.”

 

“Bruce, Johnny is, like, a mega fan,” Peter says, and then shuffles Johnny off to meet Bruce.

 

After Johnny calms down exponentially, Peter takes him over to his corner of the lab and shows him some of the stuff he’s been working on, and Tony watches them fondly until Bruce comes over and asks, “Need any help?”

 

He looks at him, at how Bruce is avoiding his gaze, but, even still, Tony can see how faraway he is, how there’s a ring of green tainting the brown of his eyes.  “Honestly,” Tony says, kicking one of the gauntlets, “I was thinking about giving up and doing some yoga.”  Because, sometimes, he remembers how to be a good friend.

 

Tony lets Bruce lead them, follows the flow of his body, until they’re in savasana, and he tugs out his phone after a couple minutes, fighting silently with Friday until she agrees to call Betty behind Bruce’s back and convince her to come up for a couple weeks, at the very least.  Ten minutes later, when they’re sipping tea and sitting outside, no blanket to protect them from the cold because Bruce is still feeling unruly, he leans over and presses a kiss to Tony’s temple.  “Thank you,” he whispers.

 

“For?”

 

“Betty just texted me.  She told me about Friday’s call.”

 

“Goddamn her,” Tony mutters, “I instructed her to encourage Betty to make it seem like it was her idea.”

 

“It was her idea,” Bruce says, “She just—she said she wasn’t sure I wanted her here, too.”

 

“Haven’t you been saying that all along?” Tony asks, looking over at him.

 

“I mean—not in so many words.”

 

“For being a therapist, you’re terrible at this,” Tony remarks.

 

Bruce almost throws his tea at him.  “I’m not a fucking therapist, Tony Stank.”

 

“Rude!” Tony yells, but it makes Bruce laugh, so he considers it a job well done.

 

Later that day, he’s still feeling awake and alert enough—and beginning to learn how to let go of some of his anger—that when he finds Steve listlessly staring into the fridge, he says the first thing that comes to mind, “Wanna get pizza from that place you like around the corner?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says without looking up, finds that he’s talking to Tony, and smiles.  Steve would normally make them walk, but it’s getting colder each day, and so he readily accepts the car that Tony lilts toward.  “Is this new?” he asks when he settles into the passenger seat, running a hand affectionately over the leather of the seat.

 

Tony starts rambling on about the car, and Steve is quick to engage.  It’s one of their favorite pastimes now, bonding over the cars in the garage, and he’s always eager whenever Tony has a fit and buys a new one.

 

“Joy ride after?” Tony asks after they’ve parked.

 

“What’s your current time?” Steve asks.

 

“0 to 60 in 4 seconds.”

 

“I can totally beat you,” Steve says, bumping shoulders with Tony before he opens the door.

 

They continue talking about the car until they’ve ordered, and then Steve frowns when Tony leans back, lifting a hand to tap a quick rhythm against the reactor before he folds his arms.  “Is it bugging you?” Steve asks, nodding toward his chest.

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder.  “It needs an upgrade,” Tony says, “Due for a performance eval, systems check, and recalibration.  I’ll get around to it eventually.”

 

“Sounds kind of like a priority,” Steve says.

 

“It’s fine, Cap, promise,” Tony says, though he’s lying through his teeth, “Just a little sore, that’s all.”

 

“Alright,” Steve says, though he knows Tony can see that he doesn’t buy it for one second.

 

If he’s honest, his chest has been getting progressively worse each week, sore when he wakes up and nearly impossible when he tries to sleep, but he hasn’t been experiencing heart or respiratory issues, and so he keeps putting it aside, working instead on the regular maintenance for the Avengers.  Steve is still looking at him, though, so Tony gives him a little bit of the truth, “I’ve got a simulation to show you when we get back,” he says, “Finally worked out the kink in the shield.”

 

“My balance has been awful,” Steve admits, “I don’t know what’s affecting it.”

 

“That witch we fought?”

 

“No,” Steve says, “Are you kidding me?”

 

“She warped it pretty badly, but a couple days in the shop will have it good as new.  I’ve been working on a few other projects, as well—some arrows for Clint, higher voltage for Nat ever since T’Challa walked that off, and uh—well—a new arm.”

 

“What?” Steve says, staring at him with wide eyes.

 

“I got a look at Barnes’s arm the other day, and it was—fucking awful, truth be told.  I finally finished up blueprints for a new one, and the plan is to start working on simulations tomorrow.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says, “Does he know?”

 

“No,” Tony says, “And I’d rather he not.  I’ve, uh—I dunno, I’m not sure it’s going to work.”

 

“Of course it is,” Steve scoffs, “That brain?  You can do anything.  He—thank you.  He’s always complaining about it, and it just—I dunno, freaks out sometimes.”

 

“How so?” Tony asks because, despite everything, he’s painfully curious about the arm.

 

“Just locks up and won’t move.  Doesn’t exactly help when he can’t remember his own name, so.  It’s just—shit.  I shouldn’t have—”

 

“It’s fine,” Tony says at the alarmed look on Steve’s face, “I won’t say anything.  So listen, pizza was my original endgame, but while I’ve got your attention, I’ve been talking to Ross lately, and—”

 

“Tony, no,” Steve interrupts him, “Can we not do this here?”

 

“I need a break,” Tony says.

 

“What?” Steve says.  He looks honest to god bewildered, and really, this is why Tony doesn’t ask for help.

 

He plows on regardless.  “Pepper wants to take some time off, understandably, but SI can’t exactly handle that at the moment, so I’m stepping in for a bit, taking some of the weight off her shoulders.”  He doesn’t add that she’s going to Bonaire with her boyfriend of almost a year, but Steve still frowns like he can see that Tony’s withholding something.  “Nothing permanent,” he continues, “Just—I can’t do both at the same time.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, quickly regaining his composure, “Just have Friday field the calls to me, and I’ll take them.”

 

“Thank you,” Tony says honestly.

 

“You know you don’t have to do it all alone, right?  I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

 

Tony barks out an empty laugh, and is saved from having to respond by the arrival of their pizza.  He diverts to another topic as soon as their waiter has left, and Steve follows him down a different rabbit hole.

 

After—after Steve blows his time out of the water and fits so beautifully behind the wheel that Tony’s a little hard watching him shift gears, they take a six pack up to the roof and watch the stars, Tony pointing out his favorite constellations and Steve recounting the legends behind them.

 

At one point, Peter and Johnny come giggling out after them, immediately stop, and Tony positively cackles when he sees Peter suck in a breath and stash a blunt behind his back.  “Hi,” Peter says as smoke curls out of the corners of his mouth.

 

“Yeah, get over here,” Tony says, holding out a hand.

 

“What?” Peter says.

 

“Come on,” Tony says, “You’re invited.”

 

“Shit,” Johnny says and hustles Peter over, who hands over the blunt with something like horror on his face as Tony takes it and inhales deeply.

 

“Alright, star spangled man,” Tony says, holding it out to Steve, “You ever gotten high?”

 

“I had asthma growing up,” Steve says even as he takes the blunt, “But after we got Bucky back, this was the only way he would talk sometimes.”  And then he puts them all to shame.

 

He expects it to do nothing until he’s suddenly giggling at one of Tony’s jokes, and he blinks stupidly at his own laugh.  “Oh yeah,” Johnny says, “Sorry, forgot to mention, it’s enhanced marijuana.”

 

“You can definitely stay,” Tony says before he drops onto his back and tucks his hands under his head, closing his eyes.

 

The others continue to laugh and talk while they get high and drink, but it feels like someone has placed an anvil on his chest, so Tony just keeps breathing.

 

He makes it a full 24 ½ days until the next time he sees James fucking Buchanan fucking Barnes.  What a stupid ass name, honestly.

 

Exactly two days before Thanksgiving, when Tony is 98% sure everyone is busy out getting ready for the holiday, he quietly lies down and goes into cardiac arrest.  At least, that’s how he explains it to Bruce later when he absolutely _refuses_ , point blank, to go to the hospital.

 

He’s been awake for three days because his brain is playing games and likes to flood him with memories of Afghanistan every time he closes his eyes, and he’s only had one power nap to break up the flow, which resulted in a panic attack beneath his desk, and which he promptly erased all footage of.

 

He’s close to a breakthrough on the arm, though, and he’s finally managed to reconnect Jarvis to bits of the lab, so he ventures upstairs to find something to eat, cheers when he finds a Monster in the fridge, and goes back down to the lab with that and a fresh mug of coffee.

 

Science fucking sucks, so he gives up on the arm an hour later and goes to yank at the belly of one of his cars.  “Sir,” Friday says after a few minutes because Jarvis is busy growing like a real boy, “Is everything alright?”

 

“Sure thing,” Tony says, “Strange question, why’re you asking?”

 

“Your vitals are off.”

 

“That’s boring,” Tony says, and keeps fighting with his car.

 

“Sir,” Friday says when his wrench clatters to the ground two minutes later.  “Sir,” she repeats when he doesn’t answer, “Mister Stark, your vitals are becoming increasingly concerning.”

 

“Gotcha, Friday,” Tony says with difficulty, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to swallow past the flaring pain in his chest.  When that doesn’t work, he focuses on his inhales until he can’t quite get to the exhale part, and then says, “Find Bruce.”

 

“He’s gone out with Betty, sir.”

 

“Steve?” Tony says a little desperately.

 

“He’s left with Nat and Clint to food shop, sir.”

 

“Shit,” Tony says before he opens his eyes and forces himself out from under the car.  When he’s free, he leans back against the bumper and presses the heel of his palm against his chest, wheezing.  “Peter?” he asks as a last ditch resort.

 

“He said he’d swing by later on Thanksgiving, but that he would be spending the holiday with Aunt May,” Friday informs him.

 

“Fuck, anyone,” Tony gasps, and really, that was his first mistake.

 

It feels like someone has reached in and torn open his ribs, shoved them aside to squeeze at his heart.  He hasn’t paid much attention to it in so long, always concerned about the reactor, that he’s surprised by how much it hurts.

 

“Friday, let’s see those vitals, shall we?” he manages to force out before he’s leaning forward and yanking at the back of his shirt until he can get it up and over his head.  “Projection—too, please.”

 

Friday pulls up a series of screens around him, a few that are displaying all sorts of bright reds and flashing warning signs, the other that’s showing him his chest.  It’s dark.  There’s no whirring, comforting blue there, just a dull, dead battery in the center of his chest.

 

He blinks, sees a car battery sitting next to him, and snaps his eyes shut, letting out a terrified noise.

 

“Sir, Sergeant Barnes approaching,” Friday says.

 

“Nope,” Tony says, using the car to get himself upright, “Not happening, sorry.”  He starts to walk away from the car and collapses, hitting the ground at the same time the door swings open.  “Jarvis, start analyzing,” he mumbles into the floor.

 

“Tony, Jesus,” Bucky’s voice says from above him before there’s a metal arm tucking under one of his arms and carefully turning him over, “What the hell?”

 

“Hey sunshine,” Tony groans, letting his head drop back as he looks up at Bucky, “Who are you?”

 

“Bucky,” he says slowly, frowning down at him, “What’s going on?”

 

“Sir, it looks like there’s been some sort of—power outage.”

 

“That’s not Jarvis,” Tony says, his words slurring together.

 

“Tony?” Bucky says.

 

“Sergeant Barnes, Mister Stark is experiencing cardiac arrest at the moment due to a malfunction with the arc reactor.”

 

“Well, that’s fun,” Bucky says, and then all but carries Tony up and over to his desk when Tony indicates the direction they should be taking.  He deposits him in his chair, and watches in amazement as he pulls himself over, his face distorted with pain as he starts typing.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony suddenly snarls before he reaches up, fingers closing around the dead reactor, and it’s then that Bucky realizes it’s there, right there in front of him.  It’s beautiful this close, but also ugly as hell, a concaved hole in Tony’s chest, a network of scars circling it.  His fingers twist, and it comes loose as he bends over, trying desperately to breathe and not getting very far.

 

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, stepping into his space and laying a cool hand against his back, “It’s okay.  Come on, sit up.”

 

Tony tries to set the reactor down on the desk, but it fumbles out from his fingers, and Bucky grabs it midair, setting it down on the desk.  “Talk to me,” Bucky says, “What do I do?”

 

Tony hums and closes his eyes, arms hanging limply by his sides.  “Tony,” Bucky says urgently.

 

“Hang on,” Tony mumbles, “almost done.”

 

Bucky just stares at him anxiously until Friday starts making noise, and he looks over to find the reactor glowing blue and emitting a faint noise.  Tony doesn’t move, though, and so Bucky takes it, laying metal fingers against his chest, which Tony stirs at.

 

“Be gentle, I’m old,” Tony barely says, and Bucky slots the reactor in, twists it until it clicks.  “Jay,” he whispers, reaching out a hand to touch his desk.

 

“Administering small levels of electricity,” Friday says.

 

Tony doesn’t move, just groans, until, finally, he says, “You know, you’re supposed to offer to call an ambulance.”

 

“Figured you might yell at me if I did that,” Bucky says, “Are you okay?”

 

“Far from it,” Tony’s mouth betrays him, and he frowns, opening his eyes and lifting his head.  He can’t quite catch his breath.

 

“Know who I am?” Bucky asks.

 

“An asshole,” Tony says.

 

“Sorry, wrong answer,” Bucky says, “I need something honest.”

 

“That was honest,” Tony mutters, “Bucky.  And yes, I know, my AI is not Jarvis, and it fucking sucks, so don’t ask me that question.”

 

“Why don’t you just recreate him if you miss him so much?” Bucky asks, anything to keep Tony talking and conscious.

 

“That’s a lot of work,” Tony says, “I just—”

 

“Nope,” Bucky says when his eyes start to slide shut, “Come on, if you’re going to fall over, at least do it somewhere safe.”

 

He gets Tony to his feet, forces him to walk the distance between his desk and futon, and drops down onto it with him.  “I can’t breathe,” Tony whispers, and he sounds scared.

 

“I know,” Bucky says, turning so he can face him, trying to figure out how far he’s allowed to go.

 

“I hate you,” Tony spits out.

 

“I know.”

 

“ _Help me_.”

 

Bucky moves immediately, scooting closer to him and drawing Tony against him, looping his right arm behind his back to press firmly between his shoulder blades.  He lies his metal hand over the reactor, fingers digging into the sensitive skin around it as he rests his nose against Tony’s temple and just breathes.

 

It’s possibly the hardest thing he’s ever been forced to do, but Tony slowly starts to match Bucky’s breaths, and when he feels like he might not shatter apart, Bucky starts rubbing slow circles into his chest.

 

“My mom used to do that,” Tony whispers, head dropping off to the side so Bucky’s forced to lift his.

 

“Have you always had heart problems?” Bucky asks, shifting until he can lean more comfortably against the futon, brown eyes searching Tony’s face.

 

“No,” Tony mumbles, “Not until Afghanistan.”

 

“Why do you have it?”

 

Tony lets out a noise that’s supposed to be a laugh and sounds closer to a sob.  “There’s shrapnel in my chest, from the fucking bomb that went off that I was standing next to.  They couldn’t get it out, but they needed me to make a missile, so they cut a hole in my chest, jammed some awful fucking contraption in there, and hooked me up to a car battery.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“Hey, at least they didn’t amputate my arm.”

 

Bucky’s gaze snaps back down to Tony’s, who has opened his eyes and is trying to grin at him.  “Asshole,” he accuses.

 

“Yes,” Tony agrees.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Like someone is standing on my chest,” Tony says, his grin dissolving, “But it’s got me pretty sober, so shut up.  I’m sorry about what I did.  That was—immature and reckless and just—petty.  I know—fuck, I know it’s not your fault.”

 

Bucky breaks a little, the torn edges that he’s trying to hold together right now splitting at the seams.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, taking his hand from Tony’s back and threading it through his hair.  Tony leans into the touch, and he wonders if Tony is touch-starved like he so often feels.  “I didn’t know it was him,” he continues, “I started to come apart.  I always did.  They couldn’t keep me awake for too long, or I would start to remember, at first.  And I just—I kept seeing his face, and I wanted to die.  I—I tried to kill myself, tried to get rid of it, and they stuck me back in cyro, tweaked their machines, and the next time I was out, I didn’t even know what my name was.  I just—I’m so sorry, Tony.”

 

Tony blinks at him, like he’s not ready for this, and then says, “Yeah, I’m gonna puke in a couple seconds.”

 

Bucky chokes on a laugh and quickly sets about helping him up and over to the bathroom.  He sits with him while he heaves into the toilet, and then he scoots across the tile floor to sit with his back against the wall while Tony leans his cheek against the porcelain rim.

 

“What now?” Tony asks.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well, I can’t hate you after you’ve apologized so spectacularly.  That would just be rude.”

 

Bucky laughs, a small, shattering thing.  “You’re an enigma.”

 

“You’re not the first to say so.  You know, you look like shit.”

 

“I can’t close my eyes,” Bucky says without preamble.

 

“Bad day?” Tony asks.

 

“Bad week,” Bucky says, shrugging one shoulder, “It happens every once in a while.”

 

“Anything I can do to help?”

 

“You’re not really in any position to be offering,” Bucky says, gesturing at him.

 

Tony huffs a laugh and pushes upright.  “I’m halfway back to normal,” he says, “And fucking starving.  You any good at cooking?”

 

“Steve isn’t, so yes.  One of us had to survive.”

 

“I want pancakes,” Tony says, and somehow, that settles it.

 

They go upstairs, Tony leaning heavily on Bucky, who makes him tea and tells him to shut up and sit down, so Tony fires off approximately a thousand questions until Bucky’s setting banana pancakes in front of him, and that’s how Steve finds them.

 

“Buck, you would not _believe_ the size of those turkeys,” he says before he turns the corner, stops, and staggers forward a step when Clint crashes into him.

 

“Man, honestly,” Clint says, stepping around him, “Stop acting like a grandpa.  Well shit, look what the cat dragged in,” he adds when he notices Tony and Bucky opposite one another.

 

“Tony had a heart attack,” Bucky says because he’s a jerk like that.

 

“Technically,” Tony says as Steve’s eyes go impossibly wide, “it was cardiac arrest.  Get your facts straight, Barnes,” and tries to stab him with his fork.

 

——

 

That dangerous shifting thing between them settles in the cracks, a bomb beginning to defuse.

 

Tony tried to sleep, made himself lie down, close his eyes, and fight off a rolling wave of nausea at the first blare of heat from a sun that isn’t really there, but, after an hour, he feels like there’s sand in his sheets and sand stuck between his teeth and sand being pumped into his veins, so he stumbles out of bed, into a pair of sweats, and out into the hall.

 

He makes it to the living room before he has to sit down, and he drops to his ass, back sliding down the wall, head thudding back.  This close to the ground, he’s able to spot Bucky pretty quickly, tucked beneath the counter where the trash usually resides.  The barrel has been kicked clean across the kitchen, though it’s still upright, and Tony only knows it’s him from the moonlight glancing off his metal fingers where they’re fisted in his hair.

 

“Eventually,” Tony says, startling him so bad that he hits his head, and he frowns when he hears it smack off of the countertop above him, “Bruce tells me that my body will just give up and shut down.”

 

Bucky looks at him like he has absolutely no idea what language he’s speaking, so Tony switches tactics and asks, “Где аre вы?  **Where are you?** ”

 

Bucky’s upper lip curls back as he shows Tony his teeth, and okay, that’s a little terrifying.  It disappears a second later, and recognition filters in.  “Tony?” he says in a voice heavy with a strange accent.

 

Before Tony can respond, he’s gone again, squeezing his eyes shut as he bites through his lip, spilling blood over his chin.  It distracts Tony from the scream trying to filter out of him until Bucky opens his mouth and says, “You’ll be easier to kill than your father.”  His voice is absolutely wrecked, and the words snatch the breath from Tony’s throat.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky’s back, pressing his temple against the wood, “No, stop.  Стоп.  **Stop.** ”  He lifts his head and smashes it off the wood, and that’s about when Tony’s body starts taking over.

 

He gets to his feet somehow, staggers across the kitchen, and drop to a knee in front of Bucky.  “Stop that,” he says sharply, “Come out of there.”

 

Bucky punches him in the nose.

 

“With the fucking metal arm!” Tony shouts as he topples over.  He lifts one of his hands to find it soaked in blood, groans, “Seriously, all my life, and I’ve never broken my nose,” before he rolls over onto his front and pushes up onto his knees.

 

Bucky is across from him, crouched low, and breathing hard.  His eyes are wild, and he looks like an _animal_.

 

“Alright,” Tony says, dropping both hands and inhaling blood, “That’s gross.”  His options look pretty dire right now, and he can’t decide what makes the most sense.  He won’t win, not by a long shot, in hand to hand combat, and so a psychological approach may be the best route, but he’s really not sure where to begin.

 

“Помоги мне,  **Help me,** ” Bucky pleads.

 

“Вдох,  **Breathe,** ” Tony says, putting as much Steve Rogers into his voice as he can muster.  Bucky obeys, his breaths loud in the dark.  “Хорошо,  **Good,** ” Tony says, but Bucky shakes his head, so he switches back to English, “Keep breathing.  I’m going to stand up, and you’re going to stay right there.”

 

It doesn’t work.

 

The second he moves, Bucky darts forward, and he has Tony pinned against the island in seconds, cold fingers holding his wrists together and metal fingers clutching his throat.

 

“Bucky,” Tony gasps.

 

Bucky blinks, his brows drawing together.  “Howard?” he says, and Tony’s eyes narrow.

 

“Sorry, you already murdered him once,” he spits out.

 

Bucky’s hand tightens around his throat, and Tony’s heart stammers out of rhythm, kick starts adrenaline through his system until he feels like his legs might give out from under him.

 

“Who are you?” Bucky demands, and his voice is feral, tearing apart at the edges.  Tony tries to speak and fails, instead stares back at him, eyes wide and blue, so _blue_.

 

Bucky jerks back, releasing him, and Tony clings to the island, gasping.  “Okay,” he says, his voice raw, “Back the fuck up.”

 

Bucky keeps standing there, fists at his sides, shoulders hiked up near his ears.  He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and Tony edges along the island until he gets to the side and quickly puts it between them.

 

“Who are you?” he demands.

 

“Bucky,” he says quickly, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“I don’t trust you,” Tony says.

 

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky agrees.

 

Tony doesn’t know where to go from here, so he takes a step back, straightening away from the island as he clears his throat.  “So Steve thinks he can cook this turkey in a couple hours,” Tony says.

 

“Well,” Bucky says, his eyes still a little wild, and his breaths coming too fast, “He is a moron.”

 

“Did he really used to defend himself with a trashcan?”

 

“Usually, it was just his scrawny ass fists.”

 

Tony nods, rolls his shoulders, and says, “You freaked me the fuck out, man.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, “I can leave.”

 

“No,” Tony says, “Don’t apologize.  You didn’t—it’s not your fault.  But I am going to make some tea, and you’re not allowed to carve the turkey.”

 

Bucky lets out a half laugh, and Tony smiles, though it’s a little wary.  “New world order, and all that,” Bucky murmurs, and Tony shakes his head.

 

“You’re a piece of work.”

 

Bucky just shrugs and sits at the island.  “You’re made up of spare parts,” he says.

 

“Ouch,” Tony says, touching the reactor, “That hurt my feelings.”

 

“Are you sure you have any?”  Bucky looks unsure about making the quip, so Tony steps back toward the island, dropping his elbows onto it.

 

“Look,” Tony says, “If this is going to work, you can’t puss out on me now.  You pancakes, me turkey.”

 

“That sounds like a bad idea,” Bucky says.

 

“Nah,” Tony says, straightening, “I’m a master chef.  Friday, google how to cook a turkey.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, getting up and coming to join him on the cooking side.  Tony casts a sideways glance at him, and that’s when he remembers.  “I broke your nose,” he says.

 

“Oh yeah,” Tony says, lifting a hand, “That’s gonna suck.  Think you can reset it?”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Well, I’m not gonna wake Steve up and tell him what happened.”

 

“That’s gonna be a nice shiner,” Bucky says two seconds before he takes Tony by the nose and jerks it back in place.  Tony punches him in the gut in response, and Bucky folds over, not expecting the blow.

 

Somehow, they don’t burn down the kitchen.

 

——

 

Thor arrives in the wee hours of the morning, wincing when he looks down and finds he’s missed his mark by about 100 feet.  Tony’s sure to make a comment when he sees it, something about landscaping, but he just heads inside, following all the proper protocols.  The last time he got in late, Sam complained endlessly about being woken up at four in the morning because a myth was breaking into the compound.

 

Now, however, he uses his key, which he remembered, hangs up his hammer once he’s entered the living half of the compound, and heads into the communal kitchen, following the wafting smell of a turkey cooking.  When he peers inside the oven, the turkey has barely begun to cook in earnest, and it’s massive, so he assumes dinner will be late.

 

The TV is on in the living room, though, so he ventures that way and is met with quite the surprise.  The credits to one of those bizarre scifi shows they’re always watching is on, and he can only tell because of the ridiculous music.  Sprawled across the sofa, however, is Bucky, one pillow beneath his head and another tucked under one of his arms.  His right leg is hanging off of the side of the sofa due to the person draped between his legs, a pillow separating Bucky’s stomach and their head, and really, Thor isn’t sure whether he’s more surprised it’s Tony or that they’re both still fully clothed.  He’s been waiting for this to happen since he first saw them waging a verbal war with one another.

 

He smiles before turning away, leaving the living room to go off in search of his rarely used bedroom to grab a few hours of sleep before the sun begins to rise.

 

When it does start to rise, though, coming in through the curtains in slow, golden trails, Tony grumbles awake, rolling onto his back and coming in contact with a leg.  He frowns and blinks, turning until he can follow the leg up to a metal arm, and then he groans and rolls off of the sofa.  Bucky is still asleep, so he makes a quick exit, heading back into the kitchen to check on the turkey.

 

In the second it takes him to open, check, and close the oven, Bucky has disappeared, and Tony just rubs a hand over his face and starts making coffee.  The coffee eventually draws Steve, and their voices draw Thor, who booms his hello and almost immediately results in a still waking up Wanda and Clint, the latter of whom emits a strangely high noise and runs over to embrace him.

 

“Dude, it’s been forever!” Clint yells.

 

“So loud,” Wanda mutters, climbing onto a seat at the island.  Tony makes her coffee, to which she smiles lovingly at him.

 

Eventually, everyone starts to wake, they hang around being lazy and eating breakfast, not doing much of anything until Steve finally puts on his Cap voice and starts assigning people different tasks.

 

Somehow, by two, the turkey is ready.

 

Wanda and Nat set the table in the most spectacular fashion, competing against one another to make the most intricate napkin shape.  Betty spends most of her time snuggled up against Tony until he’s grinning and happy and just— _joyful_.  He never imagined it would be a word he would use, particularly in his current life, but things are finally starting to look up, and he’s so incredibly grateful to experience this strange and foreign emotion.

 

Thor makes these mashed potatoes that might actually kill them, they’re so good, and they have to force Clint to focus on his stuffing because he keeps dipping his finger in.  Steve and Bruce handle the various vegetables until Steve manages to burn green beans, and then he’s told to collect drink orders.  When he returns, an actual list _written_ up, Tony makes an obnoxious noise at him and takes the paper to go fill orders.

 

Rhodey and Sam seem to have entered into a bake-off, and the smells coming from their section of the kitchen are out of this world.  Vision wanders between all of them, helping where he can, though he mostly stays by Wanda, getting in her way and making her laugh.

 

Tony’s just returning with a platter of drinks when he notices that Bucky is missing.  “Where’s Barnes?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can.

 

Sam actually smiles at him, and well, that’s distasteful, Tony decides.  Steve gives him a strange look and says, “He’s not feeling well.”

 

“Bullshit,” Tony says, and turns out of the room.

 

Half of the team rises to action, but a quick look from Sam sets them back, and Tony pretends he doesn’t hear it when Sam says, once he’s in the hallway, “I think something might be happening.”

 

“Better be a good something,” Steve says.

 

“Oh, it is,” Thor says, “I caught them on the sofa this morning.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Nat says, spinning to face him.

 

“Yes,” Thor says, “You didn’t know?”  He looks around at the team, confused.  “They were asleep.”

 

“Together?” Clint says.

 

“On the sofa?” Rhodey says.

 

“Asleep,” Thor says, “Yes.  They put the turkey in last night.  At least, it was in there when I got in, and they seemed to have been watching some kind of science fiction show when they fell asleep.”

 

“But they were on the same sofa,” Nat says.

 

“On top of each other, actually,” Thor says, smiling and nodding.

 

“I’m so confused,” Steve says, and sits down.

 

Sam just starts laughing, leaning into Thor, who beams at the contact.

 

Tony stops outside of Bucky’s door, far enough from the communal kitchen that he doesn’t hear the exchange, and knocks lightly.  There’s no answer, though he waits for some time, and so he opens the door into darkness, carefully stepping inside.

 

“Bucky?” he asks.

 

The curtains are drawn, and he has half a mind to ask Friday to lift them, but he doesn’t want to spook him, and so instead he pulls out his phone, putting on the flashlight.  The room is empty.  Tony frowns, coming fully into the room and checking the corners when the bathroom door opens.

 

“Fucking—” Bucky says at the same time Tony says, “Friday, lights.”

 

“It’s just me,” Tony says hurriedly.  Bucky squints at him.  “Not that bright,” Tony says, and Friday dims them.

 

“What?” Bucky says, his voice pitched low.

 

“Are you not joining us for dinner?  Lunch?  Linner?  It’s a weird time.  Supper?  Is that what the hobbits call it?”

 

“Stop talking,” Bucky mumbles before he turns and makes a beeline for his bed, slipping under the covers and putting his back to Tony.

 

“Well, that’s fucking rude,” Tony says loudly.

 

“Tony,” Bucky groans, lifting a hand to his head, “Please.”

 

It dawns on Tony a second before he keeps speaking, and he shuts his mouth, instead closing the door and walking across the room.  He drops a thumb to Bucky’s temple, lightly massaging, smiling sadly when Bucky’s hand falls away, settling on the bed.  “Did you take anything for it?” he asks.

 

“No.”

 

“Do you have anything?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s dumb.”

 

Bucky emits a terrible noise and rolls away from his hand, pressing his face into the mattress.  Tony lingers for a moment before going across the hall to Steve’s room, where he knows he’s fully stocked.  He finds him a water, Advil, and banana—he makes a mental note to make fun of Steve for just having fruit lying around—before he returns, climbing onto the bed opposite him and sitting cross-legged.

 

“Doctor’s orders,” Tony says, holding out the Advil.

 

Bucky swallows it, and then frowns up at Tony.  “I’m still here, so clearly the doctor’s orders haven’t been carried out, so stop looking at me like that.”

 

“You’re very loud,” Bucky whispers.

 

“I know,” Tony stage whispers, and Bucky glares at him.  “Come on, have some water and a bit of nanner.”  Though he continues to glare, he accepts the water and a few pieces of banana before he yanks one of his pillows closer and curls up with it.  Tony takes that as his hint and gets off the bed, though not before reaching a hand forward to press his thumb against the center of his forehead.  “Bruce tells me this is where your third eye is,” Tony says, “So here, third eye, good vibes and all that fun shit.”  Bucky smiles tiredly at him, and then Tony’s gone, pausing at the door to say, “Thanksgiving is in an hour if you’re feeling up for it.”

 

Tony absolutely despises the fact that, one hour later, when Bucky still doesn’t show, he feels a little let down, and he swallows that feeling with several fingers of Scotch.

 

Dinner is an uproarious affair.  They’re all talking over one another, passing food, and laughing like it’ll be their last chance.  Thor’s regaling them with a tale about something absurd that happened last week when Steve straightens, smiling, and Tony looks over to see Bucky leaning against the doorway, looking exhausted but better.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, drawing everyone else’s attention, “Feeling better?”

 

Bucky nods.  “Okay if I join?” he asks.

 

“Brethren!” Thor yells, and turns in time to see Bucky wince.  “Ah,” Thor says, frowning, “I, too, have experienced this feeling.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky says, giving him a disbelieving smile as he pushes away from the doorway.

 

“You have never had a migraine,” Clint says, brandishing his fork at Thor, “I don’t believe you for one second.”

 

“My brother is Loki,” Thor says, and they all burst out laughing.

 

While they’re distracted laughing at Thor, Bucky drops into the only remaining seat, which, of course, is situated next to Tony.  Steve looks over at them warily, but neither of them exchange a word until the food starts making its rounds again, now that Thor’s story has finished.

 

Bucky keeps mostly quiet, just taking everything in, though he can’t help the smile that spreads when he sees Clint talking with his hands.  He’s becoming increasingly more comfortable using sign now that Bucky’s been doing it so often with him, and the others have started to pick up some phrases and words.  Wanda has been studying as much as she can, and she responds verbally and with some sign whenever she’s talking to him.  He sees, too, that Nat looks impossibly happy about all of it.

 

With dessert comes beverages, as well, and though Bucky just sticks with his apple pie, Tony still sets a mug of tea down in front of him, and it’s such a small gesture that he doesn’t think twice about it until he sips it, and it’s this incredible peppermint herbal.  He reaches out a hand without thinking, brushes a thumb over the bone jutting out of his wrist, and carries on.

 

“Alright,” Thor says after his third slice of pie, “I have to know who hit you that hard.”  He indicates Tony with his fork, who laughs humorlessly.

 

“It was an accident,” he says, trying to wave it off.

 

“That looks broken,” Steve says, frowning at him.

 

“It was reset, it’s fine,” Tony says, “First time for everything.”

 

“ _You’re_ telling me you’ve never broken your nose before?” Betty says in disbelief.

 

“Bullshit,” Sam says.

 

“Actually,” Tony says, “Somehow, I’ve managed to break every other bone but that.”

 

“Seriously, who was it?” Rhodey says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you let someone get close enough.”

 

“Guilty as charged,” Bucky says quietly, “It was a bad night.”

 

“Like I said, accident,” Tony says.

 

“Okay, can I just—” Nat begins.

 

“No,” Tony cuts her off, “You cannot.”

 

Nat grins at him, all teeth.

 

The rest of the afternoon turns into a total laze fest.  They pile into the living room to watch the Charlie Brown special, which Steve and Bucky have adorable memories about the first time they saw it.  Thor is completely baffled by it, though he’s then curious if there are other holiday cartoons, and that’s how the end up watching Christmas movies in November.

 

Clint interrogates him about Christmas in Asgard, and Thor gets loud and excited while he talks.  Bucky leaves during his talk to make tea, and when he returns, they’ve moved onto _Year Without a Santa Claus_ , which is his absolute favorite.  Steve looks over at him, expecting him to return to his place next to him and sing the songs under their breath when Bucky hands his mug of tea to Tony and then takes a seat on the ground, back resting against the edge of the armchair where Tony’s sitting with his legs drawn up.  Tony sips at the tea, makes a face, and hands it back down, moving his hand to card lightly through Bucky’s hair, pausing near the base of his skull to massage gently as the movie starts.

 

Steve is utterly and truly lost, but it warms him more than the delicious whiskey from earlier, the thought that the two most important people in his life are finally learning how to be civil.  Though, really, if he’s honest with himself, he’s a little concerned with how quickly they went from at each other’s throats to sitting together and sharing tea.

 

Thor says something about being hungry around six, and Clint tells him about post-Thanksgiving cold turkey sandwiches.  They lounge around for another hour before Thor throws Clint off the sofa, and then they’re all getting up to make some food.

 

“Hey, you hungry?” Steve asks, stopping by Bucky, who’s stretching.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s offered hand, “And without a migraine, so that’s awesome.”

 

“Good,” Steve says, smiling, “It’s, uh—it’s interesting.”

 

“I know, I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Bucky says even as he turns, “Oh.”  He intended to see if Tony would join them, but Tony’s out cold, his breathing slow and even, head turned to the side, and one hand resting over the arc reactor.

 

“How did that happen?” Steve asks.

 

“Fuck if I know,” Bucky says, shrugging, “He literally went into cardiac arrest, Steve, it was fucking scary, and I was the only one in the compound, so Friday rang.  He was downstairs, face down on the floor.  Then, last night, he caught me in the middle of—something.  It was bad.  I, uh—I hit him in the face.  He got too close.”

 

“And he didn’t—try to kill you in response?”

 

“Actually,” Bucky says, glancing at Tony again, “He made a joke about it, kind of.”

 

“I’m confused,” Steve says.

 

“Me too,” Bucky says, “But also pretty freaking relieved.”

 

“Yes, there’s that,” Steve agrees, “Come on, he probably needs the rest.”

 

They leave Tony in the living room, who will later grumble at them about not waking them for food and wolf down two sandwiches before he goes to make coffee, turns to ask if anyone else wants any, sees the absolutely _no way not happening_ look Bucky is giving him, and promptly makes tea instead.

 

That night, he sleeps better than he has in months.

 

——

 

Tony’s been standing in front of his desk for a full ninety seconds, trying to decide if he can weather this kind of disappointment.  He’d forced himself to sleep _and_ eat before he made this attempt in an effort to give the probable failure less of a chance to make him hate himself, but he’s still nervous.

 

“Sir?” Friday prompts, and that’s what does it.

 

Tony drops into his chair, rolls over to his desk, and spreads a hand out, bringing his keyboard to life.  He starts typing, performing a system shutdown for Friday, inhales, and says, “Wake up, daddy’s home.”

 

The lab remains dark, and Tony holds his breath.

 

“Come on,” he whispers, “Don’t do this to me.”

 

Dum-E lifts his head, and the right corner flickers to life.  “Jarvis?” he asks.

 

Like dominoes, the other lights crackle to life, and then one of the suits hanging out nearby powers on, yanking a breathless laugh from Tony.  The first of his three monitors lights up, and he’s left waiting for the other two to do the same.

 

“Jay, don’t quit on me now,” Tony mutters.

 

“Sorry, sir, I seem to be—malfunctioning,” Jarvis says in a distorted voice before the lab winks out of sight.

 

“Jarvis,” Tony says, his voice cracking as he starts typing, “Friday, up and at ‘em.”

 

It takes her six seconds to boot up, and Tony wishes he could shake her.  “Ready, sir.”

 

“Find him,” Tony says, and watches her start searching while he does the same.  Finally, ten minutes later, he locates Jarvis deep in a subsystem, trying to cover his footprints.  Tony sighs and pulls him out, tucks him somewhere warm to recuperate, and goes off in search of an alcohol that will nudge him toward something like death.

 

When Bruce finds him hours later, he’s teetering on the edge of alcohol poisoning, vomiting blood, and rambling incoherently about Afghanistan.

 

——

 

Two weeks later, Tony receives the strangest text he thinks he’s ever going to get, _will you come out and get coffee with me?  Or tea?  Or something?  I literally don’t give a fuck, I just can’t sit in this place for another second, or I’m going to put a pistol in my mouth._

Tony blinks at the words blinking back at him on his screen for a full thirty seconds before he says, “Friday, find Barnes.”  She does a quick scan of the compound and pulls up a camera feed of him sitting in the middle of his bed, warm hand curled around his phone and metal one fisted in his hair, his shoulders shaking.

 

 _Wear something warm,_ Tony types back, and watches Bucky’s phone light up on the feed.

 

He moves as though it’s an effort, lifting his face to rest it against his knees as his thumb unlocks the phone.  He types back slowly, and Tony frowns when he receives it, _forget it._

Tony almost, _almost_ , goes up there and threatens him with physical violence if he doesn’t get out of bed, and instead texts back, _fine, it’s not as though anyone will miss you._

Bucky whips his phone across the room so that it shatters against the wall, and then he gives the camera a metal middle finger before he finds something to wear.  Tony just laughs, and goes back to the arm in front of him.

 

“You’re just going to skip over every circle in hell and end up catering Satan himself,” Bucky snarls when Friday lets him into the lab.

 

“I think you mean Santa,” Tony says, peering between his screens to find Bucky looking awfully attractive.  Now that he’s gotten passed wanting to see him dead, Tony has finally allowed himself to admit that, yeah, he’d do him.

 

He’s in jeans, a red thermal, boots designed for mutilation, and that leather jacket that he seems so fond of and that fits him perfectly.  His hair is in his face, and he’s scowling, but Tony is eager to worm his way inside and find out what’s pissing him off today.

 

“Have you been out yet?” Tony asks, finally leaving the arm behind in search of a pair of shoes.  He’s currently barefoot, and that catches Bucky’s attention as he watches his bare toes tap against the ground.

 

“Barely,” Bucky says, “And I’m all set.”

 

“Does Steve know you want out?”

 

“He thinks the world isn’t ready,” Bucky says furiously.

 

“He’s probably right,” Tony says, “But I don’t really agree with rules.”

 

Bucky’s scowl gets a little sharp at the edges, so Tony smiles for both of them.  When he finally finds the Converse he’s looking for, he tugs them on, laces them up, and then goes to find his own jacket to dump over a Led Zeppelin shirt, digs out his keys from his desk, and heads for the bike.  When he turns at it, Bucky’s scowl has disappeared, instead replaced with a soft, fond thing that Tony doesn’t want to address, so instead he snatches up his wrist and tugs the hair tie from it.

 

“You look emo,” Tony says before he reaches up, gathering his hair together and twisting it into a messy bun, “Better.  Hipster.”  Bucky opens his mouth to insult him in response, but Tony turns, swinging a leg over the bike before he can respond.

 

He almost expects him to make a comment about there being no way he’s riding shotgun, but then the warm weight of Bucky settles behind him, hands coming forward to tuck into Tony’s pockets.  In seconds, they’re out in the cold, and probably for the last time before it starts to snow.

 

Tony takes them to Peter’s favorite café, which is a little out of the way, but they put so much whipped cream on his drinks that he’s kind of fallen in love with them.  When they get inside, Bucky immediately pockets his metal hand and frowns at the menu.

 

“I got you,” Tony says, tracing a finger along his wrist where it’s poking out of his pocket and then stepping up to order for both of them.  Once they’ve gotten a table, Tony tucks his legs up beneath him and asks, “What’s up?”

 

“Let’s not,” Bucky says sharply.

 

“Sometimes, I can tell when Bruce needs a distraction,” Tony says, “He’ll ask if he can help with something, or he’ll start hovering.  But sometimes, he’s already too far to remember to ask for help, and I catch him just sitting there, staring at his shaking hands.  So, what’s up?”

 

Bucky’s glare has leveled lesser men, but Tony just sips his chai, getting whipped cream on his nose and breaking a broken laugh out of Bucky.  He sighs after, reaching over with his right hand to help guide his left up onto the table.

 

“I can’t—” he breaks off, grimacing as he forces his fingers open, “It hurts so much.”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Tony sighs, his aggravation clear.

 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder.  “It wasn’t this bad before.”

 

“Did you do anything to it recently?”

 

“Well,” Bucky says, and it’s heavy in a way that lets Tony know the last few days have been dark and awful, “Not intentionally.”

 

“Jesus,” Tony says, “Okay, well.  Hang in there, I’ve got something that might help back in the lab.”  Bucky’s clearly not ready to be back inside the compound, though, and while Tony has a few local ideas to keep them busy, he has a far better, and far more ridiculous, plan slowly gaining traction.

 

“Say,” Tony says as they’ve leaving the café behind.  He checks his watch—9:30 AM—and grins.  “How are you with road trips?”

 

Bucky lifts an eyebrow and says, “Been a while, but,” and shrugs.

 

And well, that’s how they end up in Salem, MA of all places.  Tony’s been a few times, though not recently, and it feels like a place that Bucky would enjoy.  He doesn’t ask once where they’re going during the almost four hour trip, and for that, Tony is both surprised and pleased.  They arrive around one because Tony drives like a maniac, who immediately starts searching for somewhere to eat at a red light while Bucky leans his cheek against the back of Tony’s shoulder, and well, that’s distracting.

 

“How do you feel about Thai?” Tony asks as the other light is turning yellow.

 

“Never had it,” Bucky says, his voice muffled by Tony’s jacket.

 

“You alright?”

 

“That’s a foul question.”

 

“Agreed,” Tony says, and starts driving again.  He takes them through Salem, following Friday’s directions into Danvers, and pulls up in front of a small, but incredibly comfortable and wonderfully staffed Thai place that has four different colors of curry, and which Tony gets a good laugh about watching Bucky frown at the menu.

 

They talk about food until Tony’s got a good grasp of his palette, and then, for whatever reason, Bucky trusts him enough to pick out something.  They both end up with curry, and Bucky’s smile is brighter than he’s ever seen it when he tries it.

 

“Steve could never have anything spicy growing up,” Bucky says as he watches Tony demonstrate how to use chopsticks, “It was always grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

 

“That’s boring,” Tony says, smiling when Bucky manages to pick up a piece of tomato with his own set of chopsticks, “He really was that sick?  I mean, I’ve seen the file, but I never quite believed it.”

 

Bucky shakes his head, and there’s something like sorrow creeping in at the edge of his expression.  “I used to sit up at night with him, when he couldn’t afford asthma medication, and just breathe with him.  It was awful.  Whenever he panics now, I—I can hear it all over again.  It sounds like he’s dying.”

 

“I didn’t know,” Tony says honestly, “But at least he had you.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “At least.”

 

“Okay, this is an awful conversation,” Tony says, “Gross.  You gotten back into baseball yet?”

 

Bucky grins.  “Yeah, we’ve been watching some old games.  Steve’s got season tickets, I guess, so we’re gonna try to go to a game eventually.”

 

“Try?”

 

“Well, crowds, and all that,” Bucky says, “It’s still a little hairy.”

 

“Well,” Tony says, and has to take a moment to decide if he really means it before he continues, “I won’t come with—sports, and all that—but if you need an out, the pitch isn’t far from the compound.”

 

Bucky’s smile is this tiny thing, but it’s got enough electricity to injure someone, and Tony knows, without a doubt, that he has to make it happen again.

 

After lunch, Tony tells him about the rave reviews he reads of this place, where chaider apparently first made its appearance, and so they step into another café, this one much smaller and smelling decidedly more amazing than the one in New York.  They get their drinks to go, and spend the next few hours wandering the streets of Salem.

 

Tony gets Friday to feed him some history, and tries to impress Bucky until Bucky reaches up and tips the earbud out of his ear.  “Just you,” Bucky says, and Tony nods, pocketing the earbud.  They spend an entire forty minutes inside of an independent bookstore because Bucky found a science fiction section that he can’t walk away from.  He gets four new paperbacks, and actually gets chatty when Tony asks him what they’re about.

 

There are a few witch shops that they both look at a little skeptically, but they still go in and browse, and if Bucky buys an obsidian worry stone in one of them, Tony isn’t judging.  Around three, Tony swears and digs out his phone, shoulders going up sheepishly when he finds fourteen missed calls and seven messages.

 

“So Steve is panicking,” Tony says, showing his phone, and Bucky winces.  “Right,” Tony says, remembering, “You shattered your phone.  Asshole,” he adds for good measure before he ignores all of the messages and just calls Steve back.

 

“Where the fuck are you?” Steve asks before Tony can get a hello in.

 

“Wow, that went straight to my dick,” Tony says.

 

“ _Tony_.”

 

“He’s with me, stop losing your shit,” Tony says, “He was—” he pauses, glancing at Bucky, who shakes his head, so Tony plows on, “—suicidal, so we left for a bit.”

 

“A _bit_?” Steve nearly squeaks, “I’ve been trying to reach you for three hours!”

 

“I put my phone on silent?”

 

“Bullshit, Friday would have told you,” Steve accuses.

 

“Ah,” Tony says, and pats his pocket, “She’s indisposed at the moment.”

 

“Where the fuck are you?” Steve demands.

 

“On an adventure,” Tony says, “Don’t worry.  I promise we’re both safe.”

 

“Jesus, Tony, you can’t do this.”

 

“Listen, pipsqueak, you’re fine, he’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all just fucking dandy.  We’ll be back late, okay, dad?”

 

“That’s weird,” Steve says, some of the stress leaving his voice.

 

“It is,” Tony agrees, “I’m sorry?”

 

“Thank you,” Steve says, “For that, and—for this.”

 

“This is becoming one of those conversations that make my feelings itchy,” Tony says, and hangs up.  “Stop making that face,” he adds when he sees Bucky’s look of pure distress, “One of those witches told me there’s a comic book store that’ll blast Newbury Comics out of the world.”

 

“Harrison’s?” Bucky asks, and Tony blinks at him, “Yeah, I saw it when we were driving in.  There’s a cardboard cutout of Hulk in the window.”

 

Tony _cackles_.

 

They end up FaceTiming with Bruce and Betty literally just to show him the cutout, which Betty almost falls over about and Bruce just gives Tony his best unamused face, so Tony blows a kiss and ends the call.  “Wait, what,” Bucky says ten minutes later when faced with a bookshelf of _Star Trek_ graphic novels.

 

Tony leaves him to geek out, carefully avoids the eye of someone who definitely recognizes him in the back of the store, and almost walks into someone dressed head to toe like Cap, which is very disconcerting.  There’s another someone blatantly staring at him in the middle of the store, and then there’s a mug with his face on it, and Tony’s all done, needs to be out of here and in the crisp air outside when he barrels into a clothing display, quickly rights it before it topples over, and stops dead in his tracks.

 

They all got sweatshirts that day, and he snatched the last Iron Man one proudly, toting it around for the following week until he was back to his ratty old shirts because he didn’t want to get grease all over it.  Bucky had been happy enough about his Captain America one, and he hadn’t made a single remark about how he would never be considered hero enough to deserve a sweatshirt, but _holy fuck_ , there’s a Winter Soldier sweatshirt staring back at him.  It’s really rather simple, all black with a red rim on the bottom and a grey sleeve with a red star on it, but Tony _needs_ it.

 

He shrugs out of his jacket, puts it on, and goes off in search of Bucky, who turns as he feels him approach, holding a graphic novel in his hand, and just—stops.

 

“What is that?” Bucky asks because he can’t let himself believe it.

 

“Seems you’re cool enough for these dorks,” Tony says, and Bucky’s exhale breaks into a noise.

 

“You—you planned this somehow,” Bucky says because no, this isn’t real, this can’t be happening, this—“Didn’t you?”

 

“I’m not that nice,” Tony says, “But I am buying this.”

 

“What?”  If possible, Bucky seems even more confused and distraught by this news than the fact that there’s a sweatshirt sporting his metal arm in cotton form.

 

“Heck yeah,” Tony says, and heads for the register.

 

Bucky just blinks, and is lost for several seconds until Tony signs at him to hurry up, and he quickly gathers the graphic novels he’s been looking at and goes to join him.  He’s still so lost in his own head that he hands the novels over with his left hand, the cashier drops his scanner, and Tony snorts.

 

“Holy shit,” the cashier says.

 

“Yes, let’s move on,” Tony says, still grinning as he shoulders on his jacket over his new sweatshirt.

 

They pay, which seems to take forever because their cashier can’t seem to get over the fact that Iron Man and Winter Soldier are standing in front of him, but they’re finally outside, and Tony has the audacity to say, “Yeah, that was a traumatic experience, and I’m never going in a comic book store again.”

 

“Why?” Bucky asks, frowning.

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder and dares himself to step closer to Bucky, who swallows back a smile when he does.  “Everyone was—looking at me,” Tony admits, looking down at the ground.

 

“It’s all those spare parts,” Bucky says, and dares himself to curl a metal finger around one of Tony’s human ones.

 

Tony decides not to react, instead lets Bucky’s index finger remain wrapped around his own.  He blames his lack of reaction on why, when they do eventually get back to Manhattan and into the lab, Bucky almost breaks down at the sight of the arm.

 

At first, when Bucky steps into his space and pulls him into a one-armed hug, Tony has absolutely no idea what is the appropriate next step.  He just stands there, unsure and not altogether unhappy about this turn of events, and then Bucky has the audacity to say, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“What?”  Tony pulls away from him abruptly, looking at him in confusion and fear.

 

Bucky shakes his head, his eyes bright and his hands trembling.  “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t,” Tony says, shaking his head quickly, trying to stop this train wreck of a fucking moment.

 

“I don’t deserve this,” Bucky says, not looking away from him, “I should—I’m going to leave.”

 

“Fuck you,” Tony says, “Don’t you dare.  You don’t—you don’t get to run away from this, from what you fucking did.”  For absolutely _zero_ reason that Tony can understand, he reaches for Bucky, sneers when Bucky flinches, and grabs his shirt, hauling him back toward him.  They’re close enough that he can smell the curry on Bucky’s breath, a hint of apple from the farm they stopped at and snuck into their orchard, and then he can’t look at him.  “Don’t,” he says to Bucky’s collarbone.

 

Bucky exhales, this slow, wrenching thing before he lifts both hands, the metal one hovering even as the human one tangles with his hair, thumb swiping down to brush against his temple.  Tony is still holding onto his shirt, and keeps it there, curls his fingers into a fist to make this more real as he feels cool fingers cup the back of his head, brush lightly against the nape of his neck.

 

“Can you ever forgive me?” Bucky whispers.

 

Tony breaks, closing his eyes to try to push it all back down, and then Bucky— _fucking Bucky, what a stupid fucking name_ —kisses the only remaining evidence of his broken nose, a tiny smudge of black across the bridge, and presses their temples together.  “Not until you do,” Tony mumbles.

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, “Square deal.”

 

And well, that’s that.

 

——

Bucky doesn’t tell anyone at first, and then, Steve comes back from a run looking absolutely miserable, and Bucky bullies him into going downstairs to the gym to spar with him.  He accidentally broke one of the punching bags the other night, and Tony swore impressively at him when he found out, so it’s nice to have a human to punch.

 

They start off easy, just warming up, working through a few exercises together, and then Steve throws one wild punch, and they’re off.  Their hand to hand is something Steve is always proud of, and he gives as good as Bucky is.  It’s become like a dance between them, something violent and volatile, and it makes Bucky’s blood sing.

 

Sometimes, he’ll drop in the middle of a fight, one of Steve’s arms swinging above his head, metal fingers gripping the mat beneath them because that other consciousness is right there, pushing at the barriers of _his_ mind.

 

Today is, luckily, not one of those days, and he fights like someone terrible is opposite him.  He sees it in Steve’s eyes that he’s wondering who he’s fighting, so he smirks at him, feints to the left, and smacks an open palm against Steve’s right shoulder.

 

“Ass,” Steve says, but he’s grinning now.

 

“Punk,” Bucky snaps back, and then Steve gets a hold of his hair and pulls.  “Ow, shit!” Bucky yelps, twisting under his touch, letting Steve think he has the upper hand until he kicks out one of his legs and sends them both sprawling to the ground, rolling and fighting until Steve finally pins him.

 

“Is that new?” he demands, poking his metal shoulder.

 

“I kept the star,” he says, “Feels like a part of me now.”

 

“When did—this was Tony, right?”

 

“Yeah, a couple weeks back.  Still getting used to it, a few kinks to work out, but it’s way better than the other one.”

 

“Yeah, I can feel it,” Steve says, getting up and pulling him to his feet, “It reacts faster, doesn’t make as much noise.  Well, any, actually.  Stealthy little shit.”

 

Steve turns, so Bucky smacks him off the back of the head and jumps at him.  Steve catches him, pinching the inside of one of his ankles before Bucky can attack, so he just laughs and loops his arms around his front, burying his face in Steve’s neck and blowing a raspberry.

 

Steve makes a hilarious noise and throws him so that Bucky collides with the ground, laughing.

 

A few minutes later, when they’re both wrapping their hands and preparing for a little training, Steve says, “I was on a call with Ross during my run.”  Bucky finishes off his left hand and peers over at him, waiting.  “They want you to stand trial.”

 

Bucky finishes off his right hand, twists out of his shirt, and says, “Okay.  Then what?”

 

Steve swallows.  “Well, obviously they’d have to decide a verdict.”

 

“Guilty?” Bucky asks.

 

“Capital punishment.”

 

“Jesus, that’s a thing?”  When Steve only nods, Bucky echoes the movement and looks down at his feet.  “Is there even a possibility for any other verdict?”

 

“Several, actually,” Steve says, “It’s a different kind of case than they’re used to, obviously, so different outcomes could include psychological treatment and jail time.”

 

“I’m not going to a fucking mental hospital,” Bucky says, “Or jail, for that matter.”

 

“I know,” Steve says, “Best case scenario is the last verdict.  Not innocent, but reintroduced to society.”

 

“And what will they base that on?”

 

“A series of tests,” Steve says, “Ross didn’t explain much, just said that they wanted to test you, psychologically, in front of the jury to see if you were fit to go back.”

 

“I’ll run,” Bucky says.

 

“I know,” Steve says, and his face lets Bucky know that he understands.

 

“Come on,” Bucky sighs, hitting him in the shoulder before he turns and heads for the ring.

 

——

 

Tony is, surprisingly, not in the lab when he goes looking for him.  Bruce smiles sadly when he sees him, and directs him up to Tony’s suite, and Bucky isn’t expecting what he finds.

 

Tony is in bed, curled up on his side, one hand clutching at his chest, and struggling to breathe.  “Hey,” Bucky says, quickly climbing onto the bed opposite him, though he keeps his distance, “What’s going on?”

 

Tony doesn’t respond, just keeps lying there with his eyes closed, trying to inhale and getting stuck halfway.  He’s exuding this calm that confuses Bucky, though, that makes him reevaluate.  “This isn’t a panic attack,” he says, and Tony very slowly shakes his head.

 

“Alright, come on.”  He shifts closer, manhandles Tony until he’s pressed back to chest with him, and Tony lets his head drop back, hand falling away from his chest to display the arc reactor, in all its dull glory.  “Why isn’t it bright?” Bucky asks, frowning down at it.

 

Tony shakes his head again, lets his forehead land against Bucky’s jaw, and just keeps wheezing.  Bucky sighs and breathes with him, keeps him held close, giving him something to hold onto so that he doesn’t shake apart.

 

Eventually, it starts to get better, and Tony’s voice is hoarse and painful sounding when he says, “We’re not getting along.”

 

“You and the reactor?”

 

“It needs a shit ton of maintenance.”

 

“And you haven’t been doing it because?”

 

“Busy,” Tony mumbles, not lifting his head, “Give me a second, and then we can talk about Ross.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“I was on the call with Steve, I know.”

 

“No, shut up,” Bucky says, reaching up his metal hand to rest lightly over the reactor, “Just be quiet.”

 

Tony obeys, content to get heavier and warmer in Bucky’s arms until he thinks he might be asleep, but then he says, “Respiratory distress, sorry,” and sits up.  Bucky lets him go until Tony’s turning to face him, leaning his elbows onto his knees.  “So, it’s in a week.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking down at his hands, “I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Well, you’re going, for one thing,” Tony says, and Bucky’s gaze snaps up, “And I’m coming with you, as is the rest of the team.  We’ll get you through this.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“I won’t let you go to jail or a hospital, and I’m certainly not about to allow a death sentence, so seems like this is a wash, really.  And then after, we’ll go to a really obnoxious restaurant and show them that the Avengers don’t give a flying rat’s ass what the rest of the world thinks.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“ _James_ ,” Tony says, and then immediately adds, “God, that’s so much better than Bucky, seriously, who decided that was a good name?”

 

“Short for Buchanan,” Bucky says, though he still sounds unsure.

 

“Buchanan is way cooler than _Bucky_.  James, however, is a perfectly respectable name.”  Bucky doesn’t budge.  “Alright, Bucky it is,” Tony says, and then, “You ever tried sushi?”

 

“Not yet,” Bucky says, and because the world is a strange place to live in nowadays, they start preparing his testimony over sushi.

 

——

 

Four days before the trial, it’s released to the media, and suddenly, his face is everywhere.  He can’t go outside anymore, can’t turn on the TV without hearing other people’s opinions about his wellbeing, can’t do much of anything but sit quiet and wait.

 

He feels like he’s being torn inside out, like someone is reaching inside of him and unraveling his innards.

 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Tony snaps three hours after the news coverage begins.

 

Bucky’s making pancakes while Steve sits at the island, frowning at the newspaper and sipping his coffee.  Tony comes in looking like he’s been awake too long, hurling a compound expletive at his phone before he keeps going.

 

“Don’t fucking tell me this isn’t a _tactic_ ,” he snarls, ripping open the fridge door, “I know exactly what this is, Ross, and there’s no way to pretend around it.  You pulled the same bullshit with Bruce, and look where that got you.  By spinning the story like this, you’re isolating him, pinning a jury against him before he even has a chance.”

 

Bucky blinks when something knocks against his arm, looks up and over to find Tony handing him a case of blueberries.  He takes it slowly, not understanding, until Tony brandishes a hand at the pancake batter without turning away from the fridge.

 

“Oh, you think I won’t bring it all up?  I’ll put Afghanistan, New Mexico, and the twins on display for everyone to see your fucking faults.”

 

“What?” he spits at Steve when he turns and finds him staring.

 

“What are you doing?” Steve asks even as Tony hangs up on Ross and starts dialing Pepper.

 

“He picked the wrong side of my mood to wage this war,” Tony says, and, before Steve can answer, “Pepper, good.  Whatever you’re in the middle of, it’s not as important.”  Tony makes a face, his expression morphing into utter shock, before he continues, “Well, glad to know you’re on our side.  Listen, get with Sam, make some noise about veteran rights and all that jazz.”  Tony starts banging around with the coffee machine as he listens to Pepper’s response.  “You’re amazing, thank you,” he fires off, hangs up, and dials a new number.  “You ready?” he asks Bucky, who frowns at him.

 

“For what?” he says.

 

“Peter, hey.  Favor,” Tony says quickly, “Get me in touch with your boss.  Nope, now.  Go.  Text me when he’s available for a phone conversation interview with Sergeant Barnes, and let him know that he should be available in one hour.”  He’s about to hang up, but Peter evidently says something of interest, and then Tony laughs and asks, “Well, why would you pick up if you were sitting in on a lecture?  Two hours, then, and you better give those kids hell.”

 

When Tony turns to him, Bucky has to fight down a very severe urge to kiss him, and if that isn’t startling enough, Tony starts speaking and just endears Bucky further to him, “Okay, if you want to back out of the Bugle interview, just let me know because I’m going to tell Jameson it’s unscripted, and he’s a complete douchebag, so he’ll ask you shit ass questions, but if you’re down, the story will run tomorrow morning.  I had a call with some radio exec that I was going to blow off later, but I’m spinning the topic to you so that we can get ahead of this a little.  Pepper will blow this out of the water with the vet side of things, and Sam’s already got people calling in that want to show up to support you.  You’re gonna have to start using your words at some point, Barnes.”

 

“You’re talking pretty fast,” Bucky says, “Hard to get a word in edgewise.”

 

“Keep the tude, it works in your favor,” Tony says, “Makes you charming or some shit.  In the meantime, we need to prepare for the Bugle interview.  Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says, “Can I finish the pancakes?”

 

Steve starts laughing, and Tony smiles, nodding.  “You okay?” he asks.

 

“That’s a hideous question,” Bucky says, and so, it’s settled.

 

They’re just finishing with the pancakes, Steve and Tony both firing off hard to answer questions at Bucky when Tony derails and says, “By the way, don’t worry about what to wear, I’ve got that covered.”

 

Bucky assumes Tony means that he’s had a suit tailored, or even that his tailor will be by at some point to fit him for one.  When the tailor doesn’t show up, he keeps waiting for a suit bag, and then, the day of the trial arrives after a sleepless night, and Bucky thinks Tony may have forgotten.

 

What he doesn’t expect is Steve to come in wearing his military greens, that awful olive jacket with a golden yellow tie, and his hair neatly combed to one side.  “You look dapper,” he tries to joke, and then Steve smiles something fond and beautiful and hands him a suit bag.

 

Tony’s in blue when they get down to the garage, where he’s playfully arguing with Friday about which car to take.  It’s a rich, royal, navy suit over a pastel blue shirt, and it fits him like he’s always been strutting around in it.

 

“Hot damn,” he says when he turns and sees Bucky.

 

He’s a mirror image of Steve, with that same terrible jacket that he grew to love so much, his collar high, his tie perfectly straight, and his hair pulled up in a bun that’s neater than usual.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Tony says, nodding.

 

“Did you arrange this?” Bucky asks.

 

“Figured you’d want your old uniform back.  Of course, it’s been adjusted to your size, but—well, good as new as 1942.  I don’t know if that was the actual year, but it rhymes, so we’re going with it.  Ready?”

 

Bucky just looks at him like he’s never quite seen him before, and Tony’s smile is open and just that edge of vulnerable before he turns away and heads for a sleek black car.

 

When they arrive, there’s really no other word for it—there is a hoard of people out front, and many of them are holding signs that threaten, discredit, and just generally disrespect him.  He lets Steve get out first, listening to the noise that threatens to break him, and then Tony reaches over a hand, warmth and life against cold and danger, and Bucky looks down as he winds their fingers together, squeezing lightly.  “We’ll all be in there with you.”

 

“And so will they,” Bucky says, indicating the tirade of hate threatening to overwhelm him.

 

“Are your eyes open?” Tony says before he gets out.  He comes around, and before Bucky’s ready, his door is being opened.  He slowly steps out, swallows, and starts to frown.  “Half of these lunatics are rooting for you,” Tony says, gesturing toward a fairly huge group of people, all of whom are carrying a single flower, and many of whom are in their military colors.  None are holding signs, but the message is clear.

 

Steve and Tony are looking at him, waiting, and so Bucky inhales slowly, takes his time exhaling, and then starts toward the steps leading up to the looming courthouse in front of them.  They fall into step on either side of him, and he feels a little more secure knowing that they’re there.

 

There’s movement in the supporting group, and Bucky looks over in time to see Sam, Sharon, and Rhodey stepping out, Sam and Rhodey in their blues, and Sharon in a crisp suit.  Nat and Clint are waiting at the bottom of the steps, and Bucky nods in their direction, his smile growing.

 

“The others are inside already,” Nat says.

 

He doesn’t really expect what _the others_ means.  They’re gathered in the lobby, talking in a small circle when they approach.  He spots Wanda and Vision immediately, and then recognizes Scott and his gang of misfits, which he thinks is the end of it until the circle breaks to welcome him, and he sees Thor, Peter, Bruce, and _Betty_.

 

“I—I don’t know what to say,” he says when Betty smiles at him.

 

“Perhaps, just this once, he will see reason,” Betty says before she embraces him, “The last time I stood in front of a tank, he didn’t run me over, so.  There’s something inside of that hard exterior.”

 

“Thank you for coming,” Bucky says, “It means more than you can know.”

 

“Barnes,” Ross’s cold voice cuts through, “Captain Rogers.”

 

“ _Sergeant_ Barnes,” Bucky corrects him before anyone else can, and Tony has to lower his gaze to hide his smirk, “Good to see you, General Ross.”

 

“Of course,” Ross says, his mouth in a tight line, “I see you’ve brought quite the backup.”

 

“Please,” Betty says, stepping closer to Bruce, “He didn’t need to ask us to come.”  Ross is rendered speechless by the mere sight of her, and Betty shrugs, taking advantage, “I’ve already witnessed you condemn one innocent man to death and failed.  Shall we make it a second?”

 

“Betty—”

 

“I don’t have anything more to say to you today.”  She turns, and Bruce follows, putting their backs to Ross, who quickly regains his composure, and strides past them, heading for the courtroom.

 

It’s a near disaster.

 

When they get inside, it’s to find T’Challa waiting for them, which none of them are prepared for as none of them called him.  “Enough blood has been spilt,” is his reasoning, and though Bucky’s smile is wavering, he feels more confident than he expects when he takes his seat at the helm of the courtroom, facing the World Security Council.

 

They attack him with questions that he would not have been able to answer steadily had Steve, Tony, and Sam not been taking turns firing even worse ones at him for the last week.  He maintains his composure, answers as much as he can, and is starting to feel like this might be okay, he might survive this, and then one of them lifts the red book and asks, “Do you recognize this?”

 

He looks over his shoulder at Tony without thinking about it, who’s staring at the red book with an expression Bucky can’t read.

 

“Sergeant Barnes?” Ross says, “Answer the question.”

 

“Yes, I recognize it,” he says, the emotion bleeding out of his voice and leaving him hollow.

 

“Nearly a year ago, someone read a series of words from this book, and you were incapacitated.  You attacked nearly every person in this room that has come to support you, and you tried to kill one of them.”

 

He hears Tony start to speak, feels Steve yank him back down into his seat.

 

“I don’t do that anymore,” Bucky says honestly.

 

“Can you be trusted, though?” Ross asks, nodding.  The red book is held out, and someone from the jury steps down.

 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Tony erupts.

 

Steve is just staring on in horror, not bothering to stop Tony from standing.

 

“Mister Stark, _sit down_ ,” Ross says without looking at him, “Please proceed.”

 

“This is madness,” Tony says, “You would purposefully instigate the Winter Soldier to prove a point?”

 

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” the woman approaching him says, and her voice is strange, lilting heavily into an accent.

 

“This is right up there with Abomination, Ross,” Tony spits.

 

Bruce stands up, looking at Ross in horror, but Bucky just keeps staring ahead, waiting.  “Stop this,” Steve says, “You cannot possibly imagine,” but Steve can’t finish that sentence, can’t begin to form it because there’s something like determination in the set of Bucky’s shoulders that he hadn’t seen there before.

 

The woman begins, “желание.”  He waits, waits to feel that other consciousness, cold and daunting, start to pool in his belly and flare white heat through his insides.  “ржавый,” she says, and Bucky blinks, frowning.  There’s nothing there.

 

He looks behind him, finds Clint also on his feet, who starts signing as soon as Bucky spots him, _it’s okay, we’re here, you’re going to be okay, we’ll protect you_.

 

“семнадцать,” she says, and Bucky looks back at her.  He starts digging, tries to find the assassin buried deep, tries to pull at that thread even as she says, “рассвет.”

 

It’s not there.

 

It is, he can feel it breathing fire at the base of his spine, but it’s dormant, exhausted beyond ruin maybe, and he’s not sure anything could wake it.

 

“печь,” her voice rings clear, and he looks to Steve, smiling.

 

“Oh my god,” Steve whispers.

 

“девять.”

 

“Tony, it’s okay.  Sit down.”

 

“добросердечный.”

 

Bucky turns his gaze up to Ross, looks him in the eye, and waits.

 

“возвращение на родину,” she says, her voice wavering when she finally seems to notice this is having no effect on him, “один.”  She pauses, turning to look back at Ross, unsure.

 

“Finish it,” Ross growls.

 

“грузовой вагон.”

 

Bucky closes his eyes.  He can see that moment so clearly, Steve screaming his name, frigid air whipping around them as he had reached, desperate, tears clinging to his face because he knew, he could feel the bar beneath him giving way, and then Steve was letting out this inhumane, awful noise as he fell, closed his eyes and let sorrow overwhelm him.

 

“Good afternoon, soldier,” the woman says.

 

Bucky opens his eyes and stands, his jaw set tight.  “I am not some dancing monkey for you to parade around,” he says, “I will not be subjected to _torture_ again.”

 

“This isn’t—” Ross begins, but Bucky’s razor sharp laugh stops him.

 

“It’s brainwashing 101,” Bucky says.  Behind him, Tony makes a noise suspiciously like a surprised laugh.  “They put me in a box, rigged the sides to electrocute me after weeks of starvation.  Water boarding became a hobby, something they would do for fun.  They broke every single bone in my body, cut off my arm and replaced it with a bionic one, drilled holes into my skull when I wouldn’t cooperate, set me to sleep with snakes and beetles, and those are the days I remember least.  I won’t describe to you what could have constituted those situations as the easy ones.  And when all of that was at an end, they continued to hone their brainwashing techniques, to make those words a _weapon_ , perfected it so that I looked into the face of one of my oldest and dearest friends and took his life.  They created a monster, and I am not him.  I am _not_ the Winter Soldier.”

 

“Explain this to me, then,” Ross says, and a video starts playing.

 

Bucky looks to it, unsure of what more they’re about to inflict upon him when he’s treated with an image of himself, crouched between two cabinets where the trash is supposed to be.  He frowns at the video, trying to place it.

 

“Eventually,” he hears Tony’s voice, “Bruce tells me that my body will just give up and shut down.”

 

“Really?” Tony says, a horrible smile pulling at his mouth, “You have the compound bugged?”

 

Tony speaks Russian next in the video, “Где аre вы?”

 

Oh _god_.  He knows this moment, knows it because he keeps replaying it.  He hears himself say Tony’s name in a voice that isn’t his, watches Tony blink at him, and then closes his eyes when he says, “You’ll be easier to kill than your father.”

 

Ross stops the video.

 

“I’m still alive, _clearly_ ,” Tony says, positively seething.

 

“I do recall an injury later in that video.  Shall we?”

 

“I broke his nose,” Bucky says quickly, “He approached me during an episode of PTSD and dissociation.”

 

“Which is completely reasonable for a recovering war veteran,” Sam says.

 

“Please, what was the last war you fought in?” one of the Council members says, his disdain evident.

 

“World War II,” Bucky says, letting his mouth turn up into an honest and sad smile, “I am 99 years old because _you_ thought it would be a good idea to create a super soldier.”

 

Ross looks like Bucky has physically attacked him.  “I—”

 

“Hydra got the idea, the formula, all of the tools from _you_ , the US government.”

 

The Council is quiet for too long until, finally, Ross stands and says, “We’ll take a recess.”

 

Bucky waits until the Council has all left, the jury slowly following them, before he stands and turns to make his exit, shaking his head once when the others make to follow.  Steve is the only one, then, to join him on the steps outside the courthouse, dropping down beside him, sitting closer than is really necessary, though Bucky immediately leans into the touch, nuzzling until Steve laughs and lifts his arm.  Bucky tucks up against him, closing his eyes against the gathering of people still there, and just breathes.  Steve rubs circles into his metal shoulder with his thumb, his head leaned on top of Bucky’s, and he feels _safe_.

 

“You did good in there,” Steve says at length.

 

“I’m so tired,” Bucky mumbles.

 

Steve shifts, pressing a warm kiss to his mess of hair.  “I know,” he says, “We’ll sleep for days when we get home.”

 

“Do you think I’ll be allowed to leave?”

 

Steve sighs.  “They’ll have to come through me, and apparently, a lot of other people.”

 

“When did Thor get here?”

 

“Dead of night,” Steve says, pulling away when Bucky shifts, “He showed up in a suit, said he’d heard what was happening.”

 

“How?” Bucky says, baffled.

 

“He said he had _ways_.”

 

“Jane,” they both say at the same time, and Bucky laughs, leaning into Steve again.

 

“Thank you for being here,” he says.

 

“I’m with you—”

 

“Don’t say it.”

 

“—till the end of the line, pal.”

 

“You’re _such_ a loser.”

 

“I love you, Bucky,” Steve says, kissing his hair again, “I’m never letting go again.”

 

“I love you, too, Steve,” Bucky says, closing his eyes and holding on.

 

An hour later, they’re called back in, and Bucky prepares himself for another few hours of abuse.  Ross looks more than ready to give it, and squares his shoulders as he begins, but then, one of the jury members says, “General Ross, if we may.”

 

Ross looks startled as being interrupted, and one of the other Council members answers for him, “Yes, of course.”

 

“We’ve reached a verdict.”

 

“This trial is not at an end,” Ross says quickly.

 

“With all due respect, sir, we believe we have all information required,” the woman goes on boldly.

 

“We haven’t reviewed Barnes’s record, nor his—”

 

“A lot of that was included in our briefing, sir,” she says, “Please.  We have reached a unanimous decision.”

 

“Ross,” one of the Council members says, “Can we have an end to this?  Finally?”

 

It takes a moment, but Ross concedes, nodding once.  Bucky looks over at the jury, trying to mask the fear he feels.

 

“Of all the possible verdicts, we were asked to focus on four—capital punishment, a center for psychological trauma, a jail sentence, or, essentially, innocence.  We feel that capital punishment is the most extreme of these verdicts, and we ask that it be removed from the possible outcomes.  If we are to sentence Sergeant Barnes to death for the work he committed under Hydra, should we not also review crimes such as continuing the super soldier program?”

 

Ross pointedly does not respond.

 

“A jail sentence also seems impossible to employ efficiently, for it would certainly result in a prison death.  You cannot realistically hope to maintain Sergeant Barnes’s safety unless he is in maximum security, if today’s crowds and this week’s news coverage is anything to go by.  We turned, briefly, to a center for psychological trauma as a possible verdict, but it is obviously apparent that he is already getting the help that he needs.”

 

“How?” Ross intercedes.

 

“In our briefing, we also received Sergeant Barnes’s current care.  He is attending group therapy on a regular basis, as well as working personally with Mister Wilson, who is trained in his specific brand of psychological trauma.  He is also living in a safe environment surrounded by people that understand what he is undergoing and can help him.  And thus, we recommend that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes be released and given the chance to live a life that was taken from him.”

 

Because he’s a sap, Steve starts crying.  Bucky can hear him, can hear Tony’s obnoxious sigh in response, and then, without permission, he tastes salt and realizes that he, too, is responding with something so overwhelmingly like joy that he’s crying.

 

In the end, Ross has no chance.  Nearly all of the Council members are immediately in favor, and it takes little time persuading the others.  An hour later, Ross slams the gavel down and says, “Welcome back to the land of the living, Barnes,” and leaves the courtroom.

 

Thor starts cheering, loud and sudden and bright, and Bucky breaks into a wide smile, turning toward them even as Steve barrels right through the barrier and pulls him into a tight hug.  “Thank _god_ ,” he sobs.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky promises, clutching at him with one hand as he reaches with the other for Tony, who is still on the other side of the barrier.  He gives him a lewd expression that Bucky rolls his eyes at, and then he’s stepping toward them, letting Bucky wrap their hands together.

 

Apparently, that’s an invitation, because then he’s experiencing the largest group hug of his life.

 

——

 

That night, Bucky is so wound up after everything—after the trial, the resulting celebration and _several_ rounds of drinks, sitting up with Steve and emptying a popcorn bowl while they reminisced about the past and watched one of their favorite Disney movies—after it all, he lets his feet carry him where they will and ends up outside of the lab.

 

Though he thinks Friday will likely let him in, he sits down on the stairs outside, content to just watch Tony work.  It looks like he’s finally setting aside time to work on the arc reactor, if his absolute stillness is anything to judge by.  He has blueprints spread all around him, there’s a small ball of golden light hovering nearby, and he’s not moving from the center of one of his desks, instead curled toward his project, his chin resting on one of his knees.  He’s in plaid pajama pants, which Bucky finds almost as concerning as the fact that he’d wanted to kiss him earlier.

 

He’s no stranger to the fact that Tony’s attractive, and it’s become increasingly more apparent since they’ve stopped waging war against one another, but he doesn’t think this is ever a path he could tread on and survive.  And thus, he’s content to be Tony’s friend, if that’s what they’re working toward.

 

Bucky intends, eventually, to knock on the door and ask to be let in, to pull one of his brilliant smiles out of the grave, but life is unfair, and the next time he opens his eyes, he’s still on the stairs, but there’s a blanket draped over him.  He checks his watch, and finds that at least four hours have passed.

 

Tony is still working diligently as ever, though he’s donned a long sleeve shirt now, and he looks so soft and small that Bucky wants to potentially stare death in the face again.

 

“Hey,” he says quietly.

 

Tony starts, lifting his head from where it’s resting against his knee and turning it to face out, looking over toward the glass walls.  “Hey yourself,” Tony says, and he sounds as soft and small as he looks.  Bucky doesn’t say anything further, just watches Tony watching him until Tony says, “You just gonna sit out there?”

 

“Did you put a blanket on me?” Bucky accuses.

 

“Shut up,” Tony says, though Bucky catches his smile before he turns back to the reactor.

 

Bucky takes the blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders as he pushes open the door and comes inside, passing by the futon to pull up a chair by Tony.  The lab is dark but where Tony is working, and the usual whir of machinery has gone quiet.  He feels a little exposed sitting in the only circle of light, with nothing but that strange golden orb that he can identify as different strands of letters and numbers this close, staring out at the dark around them.  “Long overdue maintenance?” he asks.

 

“Almost done,” Tony says, “What’s up?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bucky says, “Well.”

 

“Yeah, you kind of passed out on the stairs.”

 

“What, those old things?” Bucky says, and Tony just shakes his head, looking too fond for Bucky to really be able to process right now.

 

Thankfully, Tony’s not looking at him when he says, “Listen, this is only going to happen once in your life, so cherish the fuck out of it—I’m proud of you,” and thus, he doesn’t see Bucky trip right over that line he’s been drawing between them.

 

He can _not_ do this.

 

There is no fairytale ending where he and Tony are anything more than casual acquaintances, and whatever softness that led Tony to dropping a blanket over his shoulders on the way upstairs for more coffee is brewed by the end of a long, hard, but successful day and too much sleep deprivation.

 

Beyond that, Bucky would like to remind himself, he killed his father, the person Tony has been mourning every second of his life, and his mother, the only person to ever show him unconditional kindness.

 

“Yeah, moment’s over, James,” Tony says, tapping the center of his forehead, “Put that third eye to sleep.”

 

“Is Bruce a Buddhist?” he asks because he needs words that are not going to get him in trouble.

 

“Bruce tells me that you can’t _be_ a Buddhist unless you are born into the culture.  It’s a way of life, and so it’s not just the religion you practice, it’s the life you practice.  So he _practices_ Tibetan Buddhism.  Because he’s crazy.”

 

Tony gets up, arms stretching up above as he tips backward, groaning when his spine pops.  “Old man,” Bucky accuses.

 

Tony’s laugh is unexpected and loud in the quiet around them.  “Alright, grandpa,” he says, tipping to each side.

 

“Is everyone asleep?” Bucky asks, looking around the room.

 

“Friday’s up, but she’s working through a recalibration of one of her minor systems, so it’ll take a few seconds for her to respond.  Dum-E is—has got his head in the trash, actually,” Tony says, spotting him, “U is—” he looks around, and _god_ , Bucky can’t stop watching him, can’t stop noticing the way his shirt is lifting every time he turns, arms still in the air, showing just the barest stretch of skin, “—ah ha.  Well.  U is trying to convince Dum-E to blow something up.  U,” he voice gets firm, “Go to bed.”

 

U makes a whining noise, but does as he’s told.

 

“And Butterfingers went to bed three hours ago because he’s older than me, apparently,” Tony says, and then promptly ignores a conversation about the golden light, doesn’t even look at it, though Bucky is itching to know.

 

“Okay, listen,” Tony says suddenly, dropping his arms back down and turning to face Bucky, one unsteady finger pointing at him.

 

“You should probably go to sleep yourself,” Bucky says, looking up at him from where he’s still sitting.

 

“One smart remark, and I’ll blow your arm to fucking bits.  _Bits_ , Barnes,” he says, and Bucky only has one second to be confused before Tony’s reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head.

 

“Holy shit, Tony,” Bucky says, standing.

 

“It’s nothing,” Tony says, already turning away from him, but Bucky grabs him by the elbow, twisting him back.

 

“What happened?” Bucky asks, gaze fixed on his chest, which is mottled with different shades of black, blue, and yellow.

 

“It’s nothing,” Tony repeats, trying to slip from Bucky’s grasp, but he just tightens his hold and shakes his head.

 

“Talk to me,” Bucky says.

 

“To you?” Tony snaps, finally pulling free, “That’s rich.”

 

Bucky shuts back down, dropping into his chair.  “Sorry,” he mutters at his knees.

 

“Jesus, no,” Tony says, sitting next to him, “I should be apologizing not you, I just—”

 

“In pain, overtired, and trying not to bleed all over the floor?” Bucky supplies.

 

“Something like that,” Tony says, his smile small and faraway.  He faces his desk, reaching a hand up to twist out the arc reactor, and his exhale comes out heavy when he does.

 

Tony opens his mouth, but Bucky beats him to it, “No smart remarks, got it.”

 

“I’m, at level best, a zero at asking for help.”

 

“What do you need?”

 

“Just talk, keep me awake,” Tony says, and starts working.

 

“Steve gave me this book to read a while back,” Bucky says, drawing the blanket up around his shoulders again and leaning back, “ _An Astronaut’s Guide to Life On Earth_.”

 

“That sounds suspiciously like a self-help book,” Tony says, and Bucky notes the way his words clip at the edges.

 

“Classified as both a self-help book and an autobiography, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  Autobiographies are occasionally interesting, even better since it was about an astronaut.  He talks about being either a negative one, a zero, or a plus one.  If you’re a negative zero, you are actively harming the situation, making it worse, and just generally being an asshole.  So you.”

 

Tony’s laugh sounds a little raw, and Bucky keeps talking, a little faster, “A plus one is actively making the situation better.  You have skills that others don’t, you can really get out there and do your thing, and you are a star.”

 

“So Steve,” Tony says.

 

“Steve’s a jerk, he doesn’t count.  A zero is neutral.  You are neither actively helping or hurting.  You are, instead, being.  You are the most important person because you are continuing the education, continuing the trend of better behavior, continuing all the good vibes.  You are the solid foundation, and you are both a teacher and a student.”

 

“You’re telling me I should shoot for being a zero?” Tony clarifies, glancing at him.

 

“Pretty much,” Bucky says, “You okay?”  Tony’s expression has distorted into one of pain, but he nods quickly, finishes up whatever last modification he was performing, and then starts to plug the reactor back into his chest, groaning when it’s there.  “Tell me about the bruises,” Bucky says when Tony’s working on getting his breath back under control.

 

“The maintenance was worse than I thought it was,” Tony admits, slowly pulling himself straight, “The reactor was being a negative one.”

 

“Funny,” Bucky says, knocking their knees together.

 

“Know what’s funny?” Tony says, and swipes a hand over his desk, bringing a screen to life.  He types, his fingers still shaking a little, but he still brings up a few screens faster than Bucky would have ever been able to.

 

“Tell me that isn’t Ross’s current bank statement,” Bucky says, looking at the numbers.

 

“The funny part is this little bit down here,” Tony says, thumbing through the air to scroll down.

 

Bucky starts laughing the second he sees it.  “Stop it,” he says, turning to him, “You or him?”

 

“Oh, me, 100%.  Ross would never be caught dead buying any of this shit, but it’ll still show up when he goes to release his tax statements next fiscal year.  I may have cashed in a favor, too, called up one of my old, uh—ladies to help out.”

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, “You’re a little shit.”

 

“That was awful today,” Tony says, looking over at him, “You didn’t deserve that.”

 

“But it worked,” Bucky says, “What you did for me—I can never repay that.”

 

“Hey,” Tony says, looking away again, “No, don’t do that.  It was nothing.”

 

“You wanted to set me on fire with that red book,” Bucky says.

 

“I did,” Tony agrees, “And look at us now, sharing space and talking shop.  Well done, Barnes.  You are truly still a charming little fucker.”

 

“Still,” Bucky says, leaning his knee against Tony’s and leaving it there, “Thank you.”

 

Tony lifts his gaze like he’s still not expecting to hear those words, and he just—Bucky can’t stand it.  He looks so open and wondering, so _soft_ , so careful and like one wrong move will send him running.

 

He’s having one of those days where he remembers everything in startling detail, where every second and every breath is full of awareness, and, for once, he doesn’t wish it would end.  Instead, he leans forward and kisses Tony.

 

Bucky can feel it in the stillness in his mouth that he catches him by surprise, but it’s warm here, and it feels a bit like sticking his toes in the earth and finding his roots when Tony inhales and presses forward, chair shifting forward as he lifts a hand to curl around Bucky’s jaw.  He doesn’t want it to end, thinks maybe they’re a little too exhausted to be doing this, but then Tony’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, and Bucky just gives up.

 

Tony tastes like rich coffee, blacker than night and bitter at the end, like a shock of mint and this lingering note than can only be described as gasoline.

 

His hand finds Tony’s leg without meaning to, metal fingers gripping to ground him as Tony’s tongue finds its way to the roof of his mouth, licks across and flicks at the back of his teeth before he pulls back, staring at Bucky with eyes wide as the moon.

 

“Um,” Bucky says, and watches, almost in slow motion, as his mouth betrays him, leans forward and catches Tony’s again, pulls him closer even as Tony’s fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as Bucky kisses him with seventy years of lost time.  There’s whiskey this time and a sharp cold like Tony was drinking outside, and _god_ , he just wants to hang onto this moment forever.

 

“Nope,” Tony says suddenly, jerking back and out of his chair, stalking away from him.

 

This, Bucky’s brain catches up, is exactly why he should have never come down here.

 

Tony’s back is to him, his shoulders uncomfortably tight, his fist pressing against his teeth, and Bucky hates himself for putting him in this position.

 

“Get out,” Tony says suddenly, his voice rough and bordering on something akin to anger.

 

Bucky doesn’t speak when he flees the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky is exceptionally terrible at hiding from Steve.  Some would find conflict in that statement, considering he’d managed to evade capture for a few years once Steve knew he existed again, and really, he doesn’t think he would have ever been able to find him if he hadn’t been flushed out.  Once Steve knows where he is, though, or, more precisely, that he’s avoiding him while living in the same fucking building as him, it’s game over.

 

He doesn’t recruit help, he’s just a persistent little asshole, and Bucky manages about two weeks before Steve is on his ass.

 

He will, without a doubt, spill his guts all over the floor if provoked, and Steve is nothing if not hell bent on provoking him.  Or anyone.  Really, it’s a problem, Bucky decides, because it’s not as if he’s plucking Steve’s scrawny ass out of some justice-riddled alley, but rather,  _he’s_  become the target.

 

The first week is easy.  Someone with the worst superhero name ever— _Magneto_ —starts throwing a tantrum in  _Westchester_ , and, as they’re hurrying to get ready, Sam tells him a bald dude in a plastic wheelchair who can control minds is asking for their help.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Bucky says, lifting an eyebrow of disbelief.

 

“I know,” Sam says earnestly, “This shit gets weirder every day.”

 

“Magneto?  Really?”

 

“He can control metal,” Sam says.  Bucky blinks.  Well,  _shit_.  “Yeah,” Sam misreads his expression, “Tony’s pretty pissed about having to stay behind.  Make sure he doesn’t blow up the compound as an expression of rage?  I heard him muttering something about building a plastic suit, so that’s something to look forward to.”

 

And then Sam is gone, Bucky avoids saying goodbye to Steve by locking the door behind him when he goes to the roof, and Steve must be too distracted because the quinjet is leaving ten minutes later.

 

They’re gone for about six hours before Magneto all but disappears, Tony finds him in Madrid, and then Bucky is well and truly alone with Tony in the compound.

 

He has concocted enough terrible ideas in his lifetime that he decides to leave well enough alone and stays upstairs.

 

Truthfully, the next 24 hours are some of the strangest Bucky has ever experienced.  He spends the afternoon curled up outside, with a thick blanket wrapped around him, watching the snow fall while he reads.  He occasionally gets up to make tea, but mostly, just enjoys the quiet that this muffled world provides.

 

He skips lunch without meaning to, and, when he next checks his watch, it’s just past four, and his stomach actually just grumbled.  Instead of doing the reasonable thing, though, and making something, he fixes a bath, steals a few apple cider candles from Steve’s room, and lowers himself into the steaming water.

 

It’s everything Bucky’s tired, sore body needs, and if he dozes off to the flickering dance of light on the ceiling and the weight of the water settling against his chest, no one is there to poke fun at him.  It’s not until later, after his fingers have pruned, and the water is cool, that someone clears their throat, and then a voice he’s only heard once before is saying, “Sergeant Barnes, Mister Stark is ordering sushi, and has asked if you would like to take part.”

 

He can’t seem to find his voice because he  _knows_  that voice, remembers it talking him down when he was curled up on the bathroom floor with a broken finger and bleeding nails after he’d woken up trying to tear his arm off.

 

“ _Jarvis_?” Bucky says incredulously.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve met officially, but yes.  I have been instructed to stretch my proverbial legs and see if you are hungry.”

 

“Tony,” Bucky clarifies, “is getting sushi.”

 

“And would like to know if you would like to join, yes,” Jarvis says, sounding a little put off, “Shall I tell him no?”

 

“Oh, what the hell, tell him yes.  I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

He knows that there is no sound that signals Jarvis’s leaving, but the bathroom seems quieter when he’s gone.

 

Bucky gets ready slowly, drying off while he thinks about what this could possibly mean.  He opts for something comfortable, pulling on a pair of loose black sweats and a red thermal.  He grabs a book on his way out—Nat made him watch season one of _Game of Thrones_ , and he was a goner by episode three, so now he’s reading all of them before they keep watching—and pads barefoot out of his and Steve’s suite, stopping in the kitchen to make tea before he continues downstairs.

 

When he arrives, he very nearly turns around and leaves.

 

Tony is sitting _inside_ of one of his cars, wearing nothing but tight, black pants and a black tank.  There’s grease smeared entirely down one of his arms, his hair is sticky up at crazy angles, and one of his bare feet is curled around the other edge of the car while he quite literally fights with its innards.

 

This is bad.  He’s going to do something stupid, he can feel it in his bones.

 

“Did it say something offensive?” Bucky asks as he comes inside.

 

“I’m about to,” Tony says in a voiced laced with venom before he straightens up, a part in hand.  “What does this look like to you?”  Bucky’s not entirely sure he’s being asked a question, and he’s glad he doesn’t respond when a blue-tinted screen pops up in front of Tony.  “Ah ha, very funny,” Tony says dryly, “That’s what it’s _supposed_ to look like.”

 

“Sir,” Jarvis sighs, “You did purchase a car that had been totaled.”

 

“Excuses,” Tony mutters, toes curling around the edge of the car as he leans back a little, frowning at the piece of car in his hand.

 

“This doesn’t look like it’s been recently totaled,” Bucky says as he stops by Tony’s desk, setting one of the tea mugs down and carrying the other over.

 

“We’ve been up late.  This is what Jarvis first learned how to do, so it seems only natural to follow the previous progression.”

 

Bucky wants terribly to ask if Tony was the one who sent Jarvis to calm him down that night, but he’s afraid of his answer, and so instead, he asks, “Sushi?”

 

“Just gonna dive right in, then?” Tony says, not looking at him as he leans back forward, grabbing a rag and beginning to clean off the part.  “Look,” he frowns at the car, “Make it snappy.  You did something stupid, and you only get one, _sorry shit you look like your father_ , and the next time it happens, you better start digging your own grave.”

 

“I assume Steve did something similar, then?” Bucky asks.

 

“Not quite as spectacularly as you did,” Tony says, finally looking over at him, “But he hugged me, so nearly as terrible.”

 

“You do look like your father,” Bucky says.  He thinks, possibly, that he might be dead in a few seconds if he doesn’t explain, and so he quickly adds, “Though that’s not why I kissed you.”

 

“This sounds like an even more stupid idea,” Tony warns him.

 

“More stupid?” Bucky says because _really_.

 

“I—go away.”

 

“Sushi?”

 

“Oh fine,” Tony mutters, turning back to the car, “You can stay.”

 

Bucky takes his book and tea over to the futon, tucking his bare feet beneath him, and settling in to the sounds of the lab.  Jarvis and Tony bicker fluently, an undercurrent that resonates in tune with the classic rock station he’s got playing.  Though “classic,” Bucky can identify almost none of it, and so he stops reading whenever something catches his attention and just listens.  It’s bright in here today, but not the fluorescent kind that he’s used to; rather, it’s an almost natural brightness, and he wonders if that’s possible, if that’s what Tony’s done, captured the sun and taught it how to shine.

 

“I _am_ the sun,” Tony says when he asks, and Bucky just laughs at him.

 

He keeps reading, letting himself drift off into another world, until Jarvis informs them that the sushi has arrived.  Tony doesn’t move, and Bucky looks over at him, waiting.  “Tony?” he prompts.

 

“All you, Buckaroo,” he says, both hands stuck inside the car, “They have my card on file, already paid, just gotta collect.”

 

“Something wrong with your legs?” Bucky says even as he marks his page and gets up.

 

“I don’t like having things handed to me,” Tony says when he’s reached the door, and Bucky almost, _almost_ , turns around.

 

God, that’s sad.

 

He forces himself to retreat, but he can’t stop hearing those words in his head as he walks through the compound.  He wonders what could have possibly happened that would create a behavior like that, and hates to imagine that it might have been Howard.  He’s read enough, and heard enough from Steve, to know that the Howard they knew died with them, twisted into something dark and ugly, and any mention of his previous greatness turns Tony sour.

 

When he tips the guy with the sushi, he looks absolutely bewildered, and that just confuses Bucky, so he smiles and closes the door, turning to head back toward the lab.  Someone unfamiliar is standing in front of him.

 

“Barnes, right?” he says, not advancing.

 

Bucky assess quickly, finds the distortion near his ankle, sees the slip of a holster beneath his pants, finds a misplaced wire coming out of the hem of his shirt, wrapping around back, finds nothing but coldness in his eyes, and carefully takes a step back.

 

“No,” the man says slowly, shaking his head once, “I think you’ll stay right there.”

 

Bucky swallows.  “Who are you?” he asks.

 

“Surely, you recognize me,” the man says, still not moving, “Though, admittedly, there were quite a few people there to oppose you.”

 

“You were at the trial?”

 

“I was very displeased with the verdict.”

 

“I’m—sorry,” Bucky says, the muscles in his jaw working as his breaths shift out of rhythm.  Not now, not now, _god_ , not now.

 

“I had hoped, albeit naively, that you would see sense,” the man continues, and this time, he starts walking, “that you might plead guilty, and this world would be rid of your violence.  I didn’t dare hope for a death sentence, but the others, I could work around.”

 

“Please,” Bucky says, and then his back hits the wall.  He’s trapped.  His throat starts shutting down, tossing out the oxygen that’s left there, and pulling in a spot of blackness at the very corner of his vision.

 

“But this,” the man says, “ _Freedom_?  You are unworthy of such happiness.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky pleads, closing his eyes.

 

Something shifts inside of him.

 

It’s not quite the Winter Soldier that opens his eyes again, though it’s not quite Sergeant James Barnes, either.  It’s _this_ , the soldier left over, the one who survived the fall, who fought every single time they brought him out of cyro, who is still left inside.

 

Bucky leans to his left, putting the takeaway bag of sushi on the floor, before he unclenches his jaw and forces himself to breathe.  “Please leave,” he says.

 

The man laughs, and Bucky grins in response, pushing away from the wall and closing the distance between them in short steps.  The man falters, his throat moving as he swallows, and snaps, “I have a bomb.”

 

“I know,” Bucky says, and throws his metal hand forward.

 

He’s no match, not by a long shot, and Bucky is fighting to survive, so he lands a few well-aimed strikes, knocks him to his knees, and removes the gun from his ankle, checking the chamber before he smiles and drops it to press against the man’s temple.

 

“I don’t care if I die, too,” the man spits at him.

 

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky says, “Now—”

 

He didn’t know fire could move so quickly.

 

——

 

Tony hits the floor when the bomb goes off.  He doesn’t mean to, but he’s not expecting it, not in his _home_ , and so when the noise erupts, he skids right off the car and falls on his ass.  He scrambles backward, rolls onto his front, and slips under the car, tapping the floor once he gets there.

 

“Friday,” he whispers, reaching up to adjust his earbud, “You awake?”

 

“Searching, sir, one moment,” she says.

 

“Jarvis, go to sleep.  Friday, give me video.”

 

Friday reroutes his camera feed to the ground beneath his car, and he starts flicking through the different screens until he finds the smoke, and follows it to the front lobby.  “Get rid of the smoke, and give me visual.”

 

Friday starts pulling out the smoke, filtering it through the vents, and pushing it outside, and as it clears, Tony starts swearing.  “Lock down the compound and do a thermal sweep for any other signs of life.  Anything beyond Barnes and myself, detain them.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Friday says as Tony rolls out from under the car, sprints across the room, and hauls ass into one of the suits.  He drops through a sublevel tunnel system he’s still working on, gets himself as close to the lobby as he can, and pops through a concealed trapdoor, frowning at the visuals Friday is providing.

 

“Check vitals,” he says, pausing outside of the lobby, which has been closed off with steel barriers.

 

“Scanning,” Friday reports, and he watches it happen in slow motion.

 

The bomber is dead, and Bucky is alive.

 

“Let me in,” Tony says, and Friday lifts a small portion of the barrier, enough that Tony can slip through, one arm already raised.  “Barnes,” he says, “You with me?”

 

Bucky doesn’t move from where he’s lying on the floor, face down, his left shoulder at an awful angle.  Tony drops to a knee by the man and pushes apart the remains of his shirt, grimacing when he comes in contact with mangled flesh.  There’s not a lot left to him, but the bomb looks like a piece of utter shit, and though it was fatal on his end, he can see fairly quickly why Bucky is still alive.

 

“How’s the air?” Tony asks, standing once he’s sure there’s nothing left of the bomb.

 

“Still purifying, sir,” Friday says, so he keeps the mask on and heads over to Bucky.

 

“Come on, kid,” he says, taking him by the shoulder and rolling him onto his back.  He’s out, and likely not going to wake up for some time, so Tony sighs, looking around.  The building has barely been damaged.  It’s built to sustain minor explosions regardless, but there’s soot and blood everywhere, and really, he’d been having such a good day.

 

“Friday, can you—” Tony breaks off into a startled laugh, spotting the sushi bag out of harm’s way.

 

“Clean-up crew, sir?” she supplies.

 

“Yeah, that,” Tony says, looking back down at Bucky, at his ash-darkened face and soft mouth.  “That’s not fair,” he says, “You can’t be nice _and_ attractive.  That’s just rude.  At the very least, you could be a total douchebag.”

 

“Mister Stark, there are no other signs of life, and air toxicity is bearable.”

 

“I don’t like bearable,” Tony says, and sets about gathering Bucky in his arms.  He stops to grab the takeaway, steps back through the barrier, and carries him down to the lab.

 

——

 

“You’re safe,” is the first thing he hears.

 

He’s grown to distrust that statement, and so he prepares for the worst, but then the smell of sweet chili sauce wafts over him, and he frowns, opening his eyes.

 

Tony is sitting next to him, _eating_.  “It has strawberries and kiwis on it,” he says, “Dipped in sweet chili sauce.”

 

It takes him longer than he’s happy with to figure out that statement, and then he watches Tony pop a piece of rolled rice and seaweed in his mouth, and he says, “Did you get that lemon one?”

 

Tony starts laughing immediately, sinking backward as his shoulders shake with it.  Bucky allows himself a small smile as he tips his head back, watching him.  He hates that he wants to be the cause of that smile again.

 

“Careful,” Tony says when he starts to move.  Bucky groans as soon as he pushes upright, right hand coming to prod at his left shoulder.  “Yeah, that was fun,” Tony agrees, watching him, “Explosion knocked it right out of its socket.  Luckily, you were taking a long overdue nap, and I was able to reset it.  There should still be some pain, though.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, carefully rotating it, “Shit, I didn’t expect that much.  What about that guy?”

 

“Dead,” Tony says, “That was the worst bomb I think I’ve ever seen, and that’s including the one I built in MIT for shits and giggles.  You’re not lucky to be alive because that goes under the assumption that you were ever in danger.  I’ve got Friday running a history check on everyone that was at the trial, though, and she’ll identify any other possible threats.  How’s your head?”

 

“Whole,” Bucky says before scooting off the futon and heading for the bathroom.  He veers a little sideways on accident, rights himself, and groans again when he looks in the mirror.  Tony did not take the liberty of cleaning off his face, so he’s covered in ash.  He makes quick work of cleaning up, and that’s when he notices the neat stitching along his right temple.

 

“Did you—” he begins, turning back out of the bathroom and just staring at Tony, who’s refusing to meet his gaze, “—seriously?”

 

“What?” Tony whines, “I saved you some.”

 

“Did you clean a wound, but ignore the rest of the soot?”

 

“I was hungry,” Tony says, “And I’ll eat it all if you don’t get your ass over here.”  Bucky just heaves a sigh and ambles back over to him, easing onto the futon with a grimace.  “You may have a few bruised ribs, as well,” Tony says, handing him a pair of chopsticks.  Bucky’s about to make a remark about how he was just attacked _by a bomb_ in a place he’s starting to consider home when Tony throws him completely off guard when he asks, “Are you okay?”

 

It’s not so much the question as Tony’s face, this open, curious expression that leaves Bucky feeling a little too vulnerable.  “Not really,” Bucky says.

 

Tony offers him the lemon vinaigrette salmon roll, Bucky’s absolute favorite, and well—that makes it that much more okay.

 

“I am so sorry that that happened,” Tony says honestly, “I’m analyzing how he got in, _why_ he got in, all of it.  I promise you, I will never let that happen again.”

 

There are a thousand things that Bucky wants to say, but with the combined headache he can feel brewing, the way his ribs protest when he tries to inhale deeply, and the sheer terror he’d had to swallow, all he can manage to say is, “Is it okay if I stay down here?”

 

“Absolutely,” Tony says, “We’re in lockdown anyway, so Friday wouldn’t let you leave.”

 

“Not Jarvis?” Bucky asks, if only to get away from his own head.

 

“Jarvis isn’t equipped to handle this yet.  He didn’t start doing security until I was sixteen.  I think we’re at age fourteen right now.”

 

“What happened when you were sixteen?” Bucky asks.

 

Tony’s face betrays everything, that this is something that haunts him and shakes him awake at night.  “Secrets,” he says, stealing one of Bucky’s rolls.

 

Bucky wants to press it, wants to find out if this is where being handed things became traumatic, but instead listens to Tony bicker with Jarvis until they can find something suitable to watch, and they spend the next few hours demolishing their sushi and watching this bizarre show about people surviving naked in the wild.  It does the trick, and Bucky’s successfully distracted, which really just means it’s easier for him to fall asleep.

 

Tony feels it happen, and then lets it happen.  “Lay down, or you’ll get a crick in your neck,” is the only thing he says.  Bucky obeys sluggishly, shifting until he can drop onto his side, tucking his knees up halfway, and he’s gone in seconds.  Tony sighs, grabbing a nearby pillow to shove under his head, and then leaves him to go tinker at his desk.

 

When he gets there, though, it’s to find the tea gone cold, and he just—hates this.  He hates every aspect of this because he wants it.

 

He dumps the tea, throws a blanket over Bucky, and goes back to fight with his car.

 

——

 

Steve is a sadist.

 

Bucky tells Sam as much the next time he’s busy hiding from Steve, and Sam sighs at him.  “While that may be true,” Sam says, switching his beer to the other hand so Bucky won’t steal it, “You’re only making your fate worse.”

 

“You don’t even know what it’s about,” Bucky accuses, hunkering down into the sofa.

 

“Wanna tell me?” Sam tries, lifting an arm and waiting for Bucky to shift closer.  He’s predictable as ever, pressing up against Sam’s side, a warm, solid presence.  He knew right away what this was, Bucky trying to connect to physical things to keep him present, and though he thinks it’s faded away from there, Steve has let him know that Bucky was always physical, always sitting that one inch closer, always taking his hand and dropping kisses onto his shoulders, just because that was how he was raised.

 

“Not particularly,” Bucky mutters, arms folded resolutely across his chest.

 

“Is it about nearly getting killed?” Sam asks because they’ve also been avoiding that conversation.

 

“Please,” Bucky says, all bite.

 

“Bucky,” Sam sighs, “You haven’t left the compound in a week.”

 

“Someone did try to blow me up.”

 

“Stop making light of it.  You missed group.”  Sam takes his arm back, and Bucky sits up, frowning.  “Talk to me, man,” Sam says, and then, when he sees the expression on Bucky’s face, adds, “As your friend.”

 

“I just—I don’t want to think about it,” Bucky says, releasing his arms to pick at the drawstring on his sweats, “I know that there are people who want me dead, who don’t trust me, and they’re completely within their rights, but for someone to come into the compound like that.”

 

“That’s not it,” Sam interrupts.

 

“Into my _home_ , okay.  I feel like—shit, like I belong here, like you lot don’t hate me as much as they do.”  He indicates the window to his right, and Sam frowns.  “I already talked to Steve about all this, and he said all the right words.  It’s not that.”

 

“Do you want to tell me _what_ it is, then?”

 

“No,” Bucky says, “It’s stupid.”

 

“It’s not,” Sam says, reaching over to squeeze one of his shoulders, “Your problems are valid, no matter what it is.”

 

“Therapist,” Bucky warns.

 

“Go talk to Steve,” Sam counters.

 

When he finds him, he’s nervous as hell about what he’s going to say, and Steve only makes it worse by smiling this careful, unsure thing, and Bucky just wants to yell at him for being so goddamn _good_.  He’s on the roof, though it’s well into December now and approaching dusk, so the temperature has dropped significantly.

 

“Come here,” Steve says, lifting the blanket wrapped around his legs.  Bucky joins him, sitting close and tucking the blanket around his side to trap the heat.  There’s a sketchpad on Steve’s lap, a half-formed image of someone with wild hair and quick hands.

 

 _Shit_.

 

“Tony?” Bucky asks, indicating the drawing.

 

“I haven’t slept in a few days,” Steve says, “It’s quiet down there at night, and it reminds me which side of the century I’m walking in.

 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re not sleeping,” Bucky accuses, frowning when Steve leans against him, dropping his head onto his shoulder.

 

“I would if you weren’t avoiding me,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky sighs, lifting his metal arm to wrap it around behind Steve, holding onto him.

 

“I just—” and Bucky stops.

 

No harm, no foul.  He always used to tell Steve that growing up, whenever he would do something insane like get himself cornered in a dark alley, and right now, he wonders if the same principles apply.

 

“It’s nothing,” Bucky says, “I’m sorry.  I’ve just been—”

 

He shakes his head, and Steve interprets it, “Not here?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky lies, and _god almighty_ , that hurts to do.  “Listen,” he says, withdrawing his arm, “What’s left on the Disney list?”

 

Steve smiles down at his sketchpad before closing it and saying, “They released a live action _Jungle Book_ not too long ago.”

 

“Oh my god, yes!” Bucky yells, jostling him, “Hot chocolate first.”

 

“From scratch, or you’re dead to me,” Steve says, so Bucky plants a kiss on his hair and gets out from under the blanket, heading inside.  Steve follows him, and that’s how they end up curled up on Steve’s bed, singing along with Baloo.  When that’s over, they switch to _Saving Mr. Banks_ , and after Steve’s done bawling about how unfair life is, he falls asleep with one arm wrapped tightly around Bucky, who settles into this feeling of security and closes his eyes.

 

——

 

They’re food shopping when it occurs to him.  Tony keeps telling them that he can just have food brought to the house, but Steve likes how normal it feels, and Bucky has volunteered to come along every time, citing the same exact reasoning.  Sam’s decided enough is enough, so he’s with them today—Nat and Clint are waging a prank war with Tony and Rhodey right now, and he got stuck in the crossfire yesterday.

 

“Guys,” Bucky says.  He’s leaning on their cart, scrolling through pictures on his phone, while Steve and Sam argue about how to make the perfect spaghetti sauce.  Thus, they’re not listening when he has the most brilliant idea.  He sighs, lifting his gaze to watch them gesturing back and forth about canned tomatoes before he says, “Neither of you are good at cooking.”

 

“I make a mean omelet,” Sam says immediately.  Bucky grins at him.

 

“I can—cook pasta,” Steve says.

 

“You cannot, actually,” Bucky says, “You burned it the last time I let you, and that was while you were 90 something years old.”

 

“Well, that’s your defense, then,” Sam says, “You’re losing functionality in your hands because you’re so old.”

 

“I’ll smite you, Wilson,” Steve says, and Bucky turns his face into his shoulder, laughing.

 

“I have a question,” he says, if only to interrupt their continued bickering.

 

“Yes, Bucky?” Sam says, and he sounds so much like a dad that Bucky considers sticking his tongue out.

 

He refrains, and instead asks, “Do I qualify for an emotional support animal?”

 

“Dude, yes,” Steve says, brightening, “Sam, can we get a dog?”

 

“German shepherd,” Bucky supplies, “I could be swayed toward a retriever, though, because they look like Steve.”

 

“Jerk,” Steve accuses, “Sam, come on.”

 

“Why are you asking me?” Sam says, “I don’t pay the mortgage on the compound.  Holy cows, can you imagine how much that must be?”

 

“He’s a billionaire,” Bucky waves it off, “I’m asking.”

 

Steve gives him this strange look that Bucky pretends not to see as he taps into his messages and starts typing, _are you allergic to dogs?_ He can just imagine his face, blinking in confusion at the words as his previous banter with Friday jars to a halt.

 

“Buck, spaghetti sauce,” Steve says finally, and Bucky just makes a noise of discontent about having to leave the comfort of leaning against the cart before he starts picking out ingredients.

 

 _I’m allergic to the idea of having a dog,_ Tony’s response comes as they’re stopping at the meat section.

 

“Cheeseburgers,” Bucky says when Steve opens his mouth, “And meatballs.”

 

“Fajitas,” Sam says, “It’s time you learned to like Mexican food, Steve, get over it.”

 

“What the hell are fajitas?” Bucky says, digging out his phone.

 

“Oh yes,” Sam says, “It’s go time.”

 

_Has one materialized in your future?  No other response is acceptable._

Bucky laughs, quickly typing back, _I’m thinking about an emotional support dog._

He expects a snarky, awful response, and though his phone buzzes in his pocket, he’s busy picking out a quality piece of steak with Steve when it happens.  “How about salmon?” Sam says, and wanders off.

 

“We could name him Buchanan,” Steve says, and Bucky snorts.

 

“Absolutely not,” he says, “Something far less obnoxious, like—Grant.”

 

Steve looks over at him abruptly, and Bucky just smiles, though it quickly turns into a groan when Steve yanks him over, giving him a one-armed hug as he buries his smile in Bucky’s shoulder.  “You’re gross,” Bucky says when he releases him, “I’m going to get some produce, okay?”

 

“Good on your own?” Steve asks, and Bucky watches him stamp down the urge to look at him with those goddamn puppy eyes.

 

“You’re here,” Bucky says, and Steve just nods, still looking at the steaks.

 

He’s looking through the peppers when he remembers he has a message from Tony, and he reaches to pull it out when someone grabs onto his metal arm.  It’s hidden beneath his jacket and a glove, but he knows what it feels like, still, and he swallows down fear as he turns.

 

“Please don’t,” the woman in front of him says softly, her eyes wide and bright.

 

“Don’t what?” Bucky asks, trying not to let it all bleed through onto his face.

 

“You were reaching into your pocket,” she says.

 

Understanding dawns on him, and Bucky carefully twists out of her grip, stepping back.  “I’m not who you think I am,” he says, tugging his phone from his pocket, “Please leave me alone.”

 

“You can’t be trusted,” she says, her voice shaking, “You shouldn’t be alive.”

 

She stalks away from him, and Bucky lowers his gaze to the peppers, tries to let their colors distract him.  His phone vibrates in his hand, and he unlocks it without thinking, hits the little phone icon at the top, and lifts it to his ear.

 

“I am so not arguing with you on the phone about this,” Tony says by way of answer, “Dogs shit everywhere, and they shed like a motherfucker, and—”

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, his voice cracking at the end.

 

“What?  What happened?” Tony says, and Bucky can hear him moving, “Where are you?”

 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says quickly, “I just—”

 

“Hey,” Tony says, dropping his voice into a different octave, something soft and careful, “It’s okay.  Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

 

“I can’t,” Bucky says, and closes his eyes.

 

“Where are you?” Tony asks, “Talk to me.  Friday, call Steve.”

 

“Don’t,” Bucky whispers, “Please.”

 

“Okay.  Friday, no thanks, never mind.  Barnes, where are you?  What’s going on?”

 

“Grocery store,” Bucky says, swallowing, “Manhattan.  2016.”

 

“Good,” Tony says, letting a little happiness bleed into his voice, and though Bucky can hear how fake it is, he lets it help, “What are you looking at?”

 

He opens his eyes, finds the peppers again, and inhales slowly.  He shifts until he can press the phone between his shoulder and jaw, takes a bag, and starts picking them out.  “Do you like orange or yellow peppers better?”

 

“Green,” Tony says, “What’s on the dinner menu?”

 

“Fajitas, apparently.”

 

“You’ll love it,” Tony says, “Spicy.  Bruce likes Mexican food.  Bruce!”  He can hear Bruce’s voice, though it’s distant, but it’s another comfort of home, and he settles farther back into his skin.  “Bruce is excited.  Did you know he used to hang out in New Mexico with his old lady?  Oh god, don’t hit me, _ow_!”

 

“You’re older than her,” Bucky accuses.

 

“You’re older than all of us,” Tony snaps, “Wait.”

 

“By two years,” he confirms.

 

“Aw shit, I totally thought you guys were the same age, this makes it even worse.  Steve always talks about bullies in the third grade.  Were you that cool fifth grader?”

 

“Did you even go to school like a normal human?” Bucky asks.

 

Tony barks a laugh.  “I started MIT at 15.”

 

“That’s kind of sad,” Bucky says, “You never got to grow up.”

  
“Still hasn’t,” Bruce’s voice filters through, “How are you, Bucky?”

 

“Better now, thank you,” Bucky says honestly, “I should let you get back to work.”

 

“He’s never working,” Bruce says.

 

“I’m never working,” Tony agrees, “This is all for fun.  I get paid for being pretty.  Bruce, don’t!  Darn you.  Darn you straight to heck.”

 

“What?” Bucky and Bruce say at the same time.

 

“Bruce, have a heart, okay, I’m on the phone with an old man.  I—ah!”  Bucky can’t stop the smile that forms as he hears Tony laughing, and really, it’s not just that, it’s that it goes straight down his spine, warms him deeper than he thought possible after waking up from the ice— _yet again_ —and somehow, he was able to hole out this little space for himself.

 

“Hey,” Steve’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns his smile on him.

 

“I’m hanging up,” he says into the phone.

 

“I’m being attacked!” Tony shrieks, and then Bucky’s ending the call, shaking his head.

 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.  I mean, minus the smile.  That’s nice, keep doing that.”

 

“You’re rambling,” Bucky says.

 

“You were gone for a long time.  And you only got peppers,” Steve says as Bucky drops the bag into the cart, “What happened?”

 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Bucky says, and then, “Okay, plums.  If anyone tries to shoot me, I’m not moving.”

 

Sam’s laugh can be heard from the potatoes, and Steve just shakes his head, grinning as he follows him over to the fruit.

 

——

 

Something’s different in the lab when he arrives.

 

Bucky can’t quite tell what, but that the atmosphere has shifted, become a little—warmer.  It looks the same—cars everywhere, some of them in scattered pieces, some of them in pristine, beautiful condition; suits lining the walls, another half-formed on the holo-deck; something that he thinks is called Led Zeppelin leaking out of the speakers, loud and boisterous and with an undercurrent that sounds like Tony’s voice; lit up like Christmas, with those lights that feel like the sun, though they’ve taken on a bluish hue; and then there’s Tony, in those plaid pajama pants again, bare-chested, with a welding mask on, fire sparking at his fingers.

 

“Shouldn’t you be wearing more clothes?” Bucky asks.

 

The music lowers at his voice, and a British accent floats out to greet him, “Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes.  How are you today?”

  
“I’m well, thanks, Jarvis.  And yourself?”

 

“Delighted,” Jarvis says, “Mister Stark is very nearly at a breakthrough.”

 

“Aw, shucks,” Tony’s muffled voice comes out from behind the welding mask, “This is why I like you better than Friday.  She sasses me.”

  
“I couldn’t imagine why,” Jarvis says dryly, and Tony giggles.

 

Bucky crosses through the lab to him, stepping around bits of metal and exposed wires until he comes to stand near Tony, who is repairing a piece of a boot.

 

“And here I thought you had an assembly line for your suits,” Bucky teases.

 

Tony very nearly considers burning him with his welding iron.  Instead, he finishes off the patch, flips up his mask, and sticks the tip of his thumb in his mouth, sucking on a bit of singed skin.  “I take offense to that,” he says around his thumb, “I might kick you out kind of offense.”

  
“Steve’s hosting a spaghetti dinner tonight, and I’m making the sauce, so.  You either eat, or you starve.  You choose.”

 

“Wow,” Tony says, taking out his thumb and lifting the mask all the way off, dropping it onto the desk.  He swings a leg over to straddle his workbench, and grins when he watches Bucky’s gaze flick across him quickly, almost instinctively.  “I hope Steve isn’t actually cooking,” Tony says.

 

“So you’ve been subjected to his disastrous attempts?” Bucky asks, meeting his gaze again, brown on blue, and it’s like fire looking into Tony’s eyes, who shrugs one shoulder, swings his other leg around, and stands up, nearly at a height with him.  He has a few inches on Bucky, but that metal arm gives him so much power that Tony has to swallow past something trying to rise up, something that tastes like uncertainty.

 

“Only once,” Tony admits, “He was trying out this team dinner thing, and he nearly burnt down the kitchen.  We ordered pizza after.”

 

“He’s a sucker for greasy pizza, it’s awful.”

 

Tony nods.  “So, a dog?” he asks.

 

He watches the minutest twitch in Bucky’s expression, like he hadn’t realized they were going to keep talking while standing this close, and maybe Tony’s a little bit of a sadist that he doesn’t step back right away.

 

“I mean—obviously, you have, uh—final say,” Bucky says, shrugging one shoulder.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Tony says, and he knows he looks incredibly fond and soft and all that other bullshit, but when he steps in, shuffles away that distance between them, the look of utter relief and surprise on Bucky’s face is enough to allow it.

 

“So are you,” Bucky says quickly.

 

Tony kisses him.

 

Bucky feels like someone has lit him on fire from the inside out.  A fuse has split somewhere along his nerve endings, and all he can feel is the shift of Tony’s mouth against his, the nudge of one of his feet as he steps in close, and it takes all of his willpower not to jerk back and demand to know if this is going to be like last time.

 

Instead, his brain sends off an impulse to lift his hand only to find that it’s already slid its way along the short hairs at the back of Tony’s head, cool metal scraping lightly against warm flesh.  Tony makes a noise that promises more, one of his hands dropping around Bucky’s jaw, pinning him there.

 

Tony shifts closer, thigh dropping in between Bucky’s legs as air rushes in, cool in the space where Tony pulls away.  “What—” Bucky begins, but then he’s there again, sharper this time, nipping smartly at Bucky’s lip, and really, he’s not to blame for the mess when his metal fingers curl tight around the back of Tony’s neck and he all but shoves him up against the desk.

 

“Mm, boot,” Tony mutters, hips rolling back up toward Bucky as he avoids the still hot boot, and _fuck_ , he’s hard, and Bucky just might die.  That’s it.  He’s all done.

 

He pushes at Tony even as Tony pulls, this frantic movement until, suddenly, Tony’s legs are dropping apart as he settles onto the desk, and Bucky steps in between, slots them together and kisses Tony hard enough to bruise him.

 

Tony’s fingers wrap tight around the metal, dig in, and there’s something like pleasure sparking through his nerves, something he’s never connected to the bionic arm before.  He turns without meaning to, mouth drifting from Tony’s as he stares at his fingers on his arm.  “How?”

 

“Genius,” Tony’s voice is a low rumble before his mouth is on Bucky’s neck, teeth following the line of his throat until his beard brushes against his collarbone, and Bucky sighs, fingers kneading into one of Tony’s thighs.

 

He lifts the metal hand, not thinking, lays it over the arc reactor, and Tony’s gone faster than he has time to hate himself.  He’s still there, even so, sat on the desk and close enough to touch, but his eyes shut down, blue flames going out in smoke as he leans back, smacks Bucky’s hand from his chest.

 

“Shit,” Bucky says, jerking back a step, “I’m sorry.”

 

Tony closes his eyes and swears soft enough that Bucky can’t make it out.  There’s a moment there, that he wants to pick apart, that he wants to look inside, where Tony’s face is a cool mask of indifference distracting from the way his chest rises quick, quick, quick, and depresses.

 

Finally, he straightens up, opening his eyes and holding Bucky’s gaze.  “All good,” he says.

 

“I shouldn’t have—”

 

“No,” Tony agrees, “You shouldn’t have.  Not—not yet.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding, “There’s a yet?”  Tony’s mouth transforms into a wicked grin, and Bucky relaxes.  “Dog first,” he says, and Tony lets his head tip back as he laughs.

 

Bucky’s mouth goes dry at the stretch of his throat, and he quickly closes the distance between them again, runs a metal hand up Tony’s thigh and bites his jaw.  Tony groans, this quiet, beautiful thing.  Bucky lets his hand drift farther, presses cool against his sweat damp ribs, applies pressure as he bites his mouth and then kisses him again, and _god_ , he’s going to hell.

 

“Mister Stark, Captain Rogers is approaching,” Jarvis informs them.

 

“Not yet,” Bucky says after Tony’s blinked stupidly and tried to reason out why Bucky is no longer in front of him _or_ kissing him.

 

He finds him halfway across the room, dropped lazily onto the futon, a tablet in hand like he was always sitting there.  “I’m good at this game,” Tony says before he slides off the desk and back onto his workbench, tapping the space next to him until a hologram comes up.

 

“Hey,” Steve says as he comes in, “Dinner’s at seven.  When should we start the sauce?”

 

“Soon, probably,” Bucky says easily, “Tony’s declined the invite, so he’s coming anyway.”

 

“Rock on,” Tony says, flicking a piece of the boot away with his finger before opening it up.

 

Bucky watches Steve look between them, smiles when Steve catches his eye again, and exhales when he’s gone.  “ _I’m_ not good at this game,” Bucky says once he feels safe again.

 

“Well, you’re the one who wants to play it,” Tony says.

 

“What game are we referring?” Bucky asks, and he sees how vulnerable Tony feels by that question by the way his shoulders roll up toward his ears.

 

He swivels slowly, faces him with a frown bitten back.  “The don’t tell Steve game?”

 

Bucky digs out a long-dead smile, brilliant and confident and everything he’s starting to feel again, and says, “Good, because I’d like to kiss you again, strings attached.”

 

Tony quickly hides his grin under his welding mask, and Bucky laughs at him on his way out.

 

——

 

Dinner that night is a loud, raucous affair.  Almost everyone has gathered, minus Thor and Rhodey, who said he was busy dealing with something Ross-related.  “Are we _ever_ going to talk about the Sokovia Accords?” Clint asks as Nat is mixing something dangerous at the bar.  She throws the knife she’d been using to slice limes with at him, though Clint catches it, whips it back, and turns to the table again.  “It’s a reasonable question,” he says.

 

“It was a hasty decision,” Tony is the first to speak up, and all but Bucky look over at him in shock.  “Listen, don’t do that,” he says, grabbing a piece of garlic bread, “It was a political mess.  Ross drops the Accords down on you three days before they’re due to be signed.  Utter bullshit, and _god_ , I hate all of you, but I’m sorry, okay.  We fucked up.”

  
“We both did,” Steve says, and his smile is sad when Tony looks at him, “I’m sorry, Tony.”

 

“This is underwhelming,” Sam says when he sips Nat’s drink.

 

“Give it a second,” she says, and then Sam is coughing.

 

“ _Shee-it_ ,” he says, his grin bright as he blinks, “Okay then.”

 

“Anyone else drinking?” she asks, already turning back toward the bar.

 

“If we’re having a pity party, I’d like to forget it,” Tony says, passing the garlic bread Sam’s way.

 

“You know, you’re kind of like our dads,” Clint says, looking between Steve and Tony, “You’re even sitting at opposite heads of the table.”

 

“That’s weird,” Wanda murmurs into her drink.

 

“I will fuck you up, little witch,” Clint says, though his grin is wide and easy.

 

“If you can’t hold your liquor, you’re cut off,” Tony informs him before he pushes out of his seat and goes to help Nat.

 

The others start passing the pasta around as Tony starts mixing drinks, and he’s almost ready for it when Nat asks, “What are you doing?”

  
“Spiking my own alcohol,” Tony says without looking up at her.

 

“Don’t be purposefully daft.  It doesn’t look good on you,” she says, and it nearly stings like she’s bitten him, “Why are you getting in between them?”

 

“Excuse you?” Tony says, upending a little more vodka than he’d originally intended.

 

“America’s sweetheart and Sergeant killjoy,” she says.

 

“I’m telling him you called him that,” Tony says, dropping a hint of absinthe in for good measure.  His drink starts to take on a strange, green color that Bruce will undoubtedly steal from him to try.

 

“Which one?”

 

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

 

“You are the very worst liar I have ever met,” Nat informs him.

 

Tony lifts one eyebrow and his drink as he says, “Are you quite sure about that?”  When he walks away, he can feel the uncertainty written in her shoulders, and it makes him smug.

 

Bruce _does_ steal a sip from his drink, makes the most ludicrous face, and then gratefully accepts one from Nat.  The night carries on.  They drink and eat, though much more of the latter occurs, and by the time they’re all just lounging, chatting about everything and nothing, Tony can’t stop himself from looking Bucky’s way.

 

He’s listening to one of Sam’s stories, this small smile quirking up his lips, a sort of smile that he’s not intending, that’s just there because he’s experiencing happiness, and it settles something inside of Tony.  He didn’t mean for this to happen, hadn’t even really known that he was going to break all the lines between them when Bucky walked into the lab earlier that day.  It’s almost as though, now that it’s out there, now that he has an answer for his parents’ death, he’s allowed the space to heal properly, to let go of them.  Granted, he’s entirely suspicious that making out with the person who killed them is likely to end with him dead, but what’s life without a little fun?

 

Not something he’s allowed, it seems, for a little red dot lights up on his watch, and he sighs, tapping into his network and pulling up a small hologram.  “What am I looking at?” he asks quietly, frowning at the data.

 

“Admittedly, I’m not quite sure,” Friday says into his earbud, “Their origin is not of Earth.”

 

“Location?”

 

“Still trying to locate, sir,” Friday says, and she sounds frustrated, “They have some type of barrier set up that I am experiencing difficulty crossing.”

 

“Tony,” Bruce’s voice cuts through before he can respond, and he looks up quickly, meeting Bruce’s brown eyes, which look worried.  “What are you doing?” he asks, and Tony frowns when he notices how low he’s keeping his voice.

 

“Friday’s detected something off.  Don’t fret, Banner, I won’t keep it from our darling captain,” he says, turning back to the data, flipping through until he can watch Friday’s progress.  It’s less than ideal.  “Hey Fri,” he says, and already, he can hear a note of disdain before he continues, which just makes him smile, “Think your big brother might be able to help?”

 

“He is still in an infancy stage, at best,” Friday says sternly.

 

“Jarvis, up and at ‘em,” Tony says, dropping his voice a notch lower.  He’s not sure he’s ready to reveal what he’s been working on with Jarvis just yet, just in case it fails.

 

“At your service, sir,” Jarvis says, “This is—new.”

 

“Training wheels are off, buddy.  Think you can handle this?”

 

“I will need a moment to process.”  Tony watches it happen, feels as though he can almost hear Jarvis analyzing and calculating, and then there’s the telltale sign of that damning noise he makes, when he’s feeling particularly proud of himself.  Tony knocks back the rest of his drink as Jarvis says, “Russia, sir.  Friday and I are localizing now.”

 

“Go kick ass,” Tony says before he taps the hologram and flicks it up near Steve’s shoulder.  “So that’s happening,” he says.

 

He watches Nat’s face transform first, a hint of fury flashing past before she’s carefully schooled her emotions.  Steve is the second to react, his eyebrows drawing down together.  Tony waits, watching Bucky, and it makes his chest ache when he watches him drop his gaze down to his hands where the human one is shaking.

 

“What is this?” Steve asks.

 

“Friday got wind of some extraterrestrial life, or _something_ ,” he says because he can hear Friday starting to protest, “Managed to pinpoint to Russia, which isn’t particularly helpful considering the size, but she’s localizing now.”

 

“Is this an immediate threat?” Steve asks.

 

“Not sure yet, but I’d rather not keep secrets anymore.  This could potentially be—” he stops short, looking at the province Friday is shifting to focus on.

 

Bucky is gone before any of them realizes he’s moved.  Tony immediately looks to him when she stops on Siberia, still working to pinpoint further, but his seat is empty.  Steve sees it, too, his jaw going tight in response, but he doesn’t say anything more than, “Let’s keep an eye on it, see if it develops into something.  How long will it take Friday to find an exact location?”

 

“Depends on what she encounters.”

 

Steve nods, turns back to the table, and looks as though he might say something more before he gets up, taking his dish to the sink.

 

“Guess I’ll tuck in early if we’re going to be up and crime fighting in the morning,” Clint says, so Wanda throws his chair back, upending him.

 

The rest of the team starts to filter out until it’s just Bruce and Tony sitting together, Tony reaching across to tuck his toes under Bruce’s thigh.  Steve is silently cleaning the dishes in the kitchen, so Tony types a quick command across the table and pulls up his favorite radio station on one of the kitchen speakers.  He waits until he sees his shoulders relax a little before Tony turns to Bruce and says, “Secret time.”

 

“I don’t like keeping your secrets,” Bruce informs him, “They usually put me in a compromising position.”

 

“Well, we can avoid the tedious parts and just skip to the compromising position, if you’d like.  I know a few that you might enjoy.”

 

Bruce pinches his ankle.  “Don’t be fresh,” he says.

 

“I know what Bucky’s mouth tastes like,” Tony says.

 

Bruce blinks at him, sighs, and drains the rest of his glass.  Tony swallows a very smug grin.  “This is so very like you,” Bruce mutters, “Why?”

 

“It wasn’t my fault the first time.”

 

“Oh good, we’re going with the situation in which an amnesiac, brainwashed, tortured super soldier in recovery took advantage of you?” Bruce says, trying to keep the edge of out his voice, “Are you insane?  How does this sound like a good idea to you?”

 

“First of all—”

 

“Shut up,” Bruce says, and Tony wiggles his toes beneath his thigh, that’s how proud he is of Bruce right now, “It was barely six months ago that you came to me and said you were going to have to leave the compound if he was going to be here.  Better yet, you got on a fucking plane to Australia, so, awesome, you left the _country_ to avoid the man you are telling me that you’re now developing feelings for?”

 

“Oh, those are gross,” Tony says, “I didn’t say anything about that.  Also, I went to Russia.”

 

“Casual sex is _not_ going to work, Tony, don’t you dare put him or you in that situation, it’s not—Russia?”  Bruce looks utterly confused, and then, to Tony’s true and honest surprise, he wraps a hand around his ankle.

 

“What are you—oh, that’s rude,” Tony sighs when he feels Bruce’s thumb settle, feeling for his pulse point.

 

“If you’re going to lie to me, I’d like to know about it,” Bruce says, and squeezes his ankle just a little.

 

“Strings attached,” Tony says.

 

“That involves feelings,” Bruce says.

 

“Only—oh, fine.  I went to Russia to retrieve the red book, and then I burned it with him.”

 

“With him?”

 

“In my lab.”

 

“When?” Bruce asks.

 

Tony’s eyes narrow as he responds, “While he was here.”

 

“The night you fell asleep in _my_ bed?”  Tony scowls at him.  “You said you were having trouble breathing, you asshole, and I believed you.”

 

“That was not a lie,” Tony says, “I only fibbed about why.”

 

“Yes, and you blamed it on aliens, _asshole_.”

 

“I mean, technically, that’s definitely some alien technology,” Tony tries, but Bruce just squeezes harder.

 

“I’ve seen the blueprints for the arm, dipshit, I know you replaced it.  Wait—what?”

 

“I didn’t say anything that warranted a question, I don’t think,” Tony says, thinking back on his words.

 

Bruce releases his ankle, sitting back.  “Well, shit,” he says.

 

“You’re making me feel vulnerable,” Tony says, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“You’re already at the feelings stage.”

 

“Oh, stop it.”

 

“You’re as transparent as a ghost, Tony.”

 

“I will—something.  I will something you,” Tony says, and then pushes out of his chair, drops a kiss that’s meant to be filled with fierceness—and is very, very not—onto Bruce’s curls, and then stalks over to where Steve is methodically cleaning the dishes still.  Tony leans against the dishwasher and says, “So there was this invention, right.  It’s really neat.  It does that for you.”  Steve looks at him like he’s not seeing him, and Tony sighs, nodding.  “Yeah, I know,” he says before pushing away from the dishwasher and picking up a towel.  Steve’s eyebrows shoot up toward his perfectly parted blonde hair, so Tony knocks his hip against Steve’s and says, “My mom used to make me wash dishes with her.  Come on.”

 

They stand together in silence for a while, soft jazz leaking out of the speakers, their fingers pruning from the wet dishes until, finally, Steve speaks, “Thank you.”

 

“That’s a first,” Tony says.

 

Steve leans their shoulders together, lingering for a moment before he straightens.  “Don’t ruin it.”

 

“I’m good at that,” Tony says, taking the last dish from Steve and drying it off.  He watches Steve clean up the sink, drain the suds, and then lean against the counter, head dropping further off to rest against the cabinet.  “You gonna be okay, Cap?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “Just worried about Bucky.  Siberia was—I can’t even describe it.  He barely can.”

 

Tony nods.  He’s read what little information they were able to gleam from Bucky, the rest from accounts he found after that fight that feels like yesterday and years ago all at once.  “He’ll be okay,” Tony tries to assure him, reaching forward a hand to tap his knuckles against the inside of Steve’s elbow, “Just give him time.”

 

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says, “for what you’re doing with him.  Giving him a chance.  It means a lot to me.”

 

“I know,” Tony says, and he’s about to turn away when Steve’s hand darts out, fingers curling around his wrist.  Tony looks back at him, sees something like confusion and curiosity there.  “Yeah?” he asks.

 

Steve tugs him forward, and Tony’s brain short circuits.

 

He catches up to the fact that Steve is _kissing him_ when he feels the soft shush of Steve’s breath against his mouth as he starts to lean back, and Tony jerks away.  He lifts a hand to his mouth instinctively, the back of it pressing against his lips, and Steve frowns.  “I thought—”

 

“No,” Tony says, taking a step back, “You definitely thought wrong.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Steve, holy shit,” Tony says, lowering his hand, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

If possible, Steve’s brow furrows even farther in confusion.  “I thought—all those nights down in the lab, it felt like—like something.”

 

“Jesus Christ, clearly I’m a fucking mess at trying this whole friendship bullshit out,” Tony says, “I—I don’t know how— _fuck_ , Steve.  You can’t just—” Tony stops, looks down and away.  _You can’t just do that._   He’d spat those words at Obadiah once, in the limo taking them away from where his parents had been buried.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says in a voice that betrays how much he’s hurting before he steps around Tony and leaves him standing alone in the kitchen.

 

——

 

Tony gets into his lab, to his bar, and is halfway through pouring himself a glass when it occurs to him that this might not be the best way to solve his problems.  He still throws back the whiskey that he has poured, but then he says, “Friday, find Barnes.”

 

It takes her exactly three seconds.  “In the gym, sir.”

 

“Keep an eye out on those extraterrestrials.  I’m going to—do something stupid, probably.”

 

“Having a heart does not make you stupid, sir,” Friday says quietly, and well, Tony needs more alcohol before he can leave now.

 

He assumes that Bucky knows he’s there when he pushes open the door to the gym and pauses, leaning against the wall, but Bucky doesn’t turn, and Tony’s constantly making an ass of himself, so it only seems fair.  He’s not wearing much, just a pair of sweats, and though he’s seen the arm plenty, Bucky is usually wearing long sleeves, anything to hide.  He can see the scars even from here, red, angry lines branching out from his shoulder, and it reminds Tony of his own, the way they circle the reactor and leave him feeling short of breath when he thinks about it for too long.

 

He’s barefoot, as well, toes spreading and gripping anytime he moves.  His hair is twisted up into that damn bun Tony finds far too attractive, and sweat is shining across the smooth lines of his back as his shoulders twist this way and that, wrapped hands striking hard at a reinforced punching bag.

 

Tony plots a course of action, stalls by thinking up a formula for the difference between Bucky’s shoulder to waist ratio and Steve’s, nearly gets himself in trouble with that train of thought, and heads over to the opposite side of the room.  He keeps clothes down here on occasion, and Friday usually has them washed if they’ve started growing things, so he digs up a pair of tight-fitting shorts, shorter and tighter than he normally lets people see him in.  Bucky’s still got his back turned, still punching his demons, but Tony still pauses and swallows before he grabs the hem of his shirt and hauls it over his head.

 

All their shit.

 

“Jarvis,” he says, tapping one of his earbuds before he reaches for tape, “Drop my needle.”

 

“I’ve taken the liberty of informing Sergeant Barnes of your impending arrival so as not to startle him.”

 

“You are truly a gem, Jarvis.”

 

“As are you, sir.”

 

“Actually,” Tony says, finishing up with his left hand, “I was once called a national icon.”

 

“I remember,” Jarvis says, and almost, _almost_ , sounds fond.

 

Tony watches Bucky slow, shoulders shifting up high before they roll back, and then he steps away from the bag, reaching up to tug one of his earbuds out.  “Hey,” he says even as he turns.  He looks about to continue when he notices Tony’s bare chest.

 

“First model was built in a cave in Afghanistan,” Tony says.

 

“Pavlodar,” Bucky says, shrugging his left shoulder, “A cave?”

 

Tony ducks through the ropes on the boxing ring, and Bucky grins before following him, pushing back a stray strand of hair falling across his forehead.  “Howard’s dearest friend had me assassinated.”

 

“Well, he clearly hired the wrong one,” Bucky says, and Tony gapes at him through a surprised smile.

 

“Alright then,” he says, squaring up opposite him.

 

“Why didn’t they kill you?” Bucky asks.

 

“They tried,” Ton says, “Instead, they blew some shrapnel into my chest, kidnapped me, and held me for ransom while they forced me to recreate one of my missiles.”  Tony darts forward, aiming a jab at Bucky, who easily deflects and strikes back.

 

They start moving, reading each other’s body language and reacting to one another as they fight.  “Instead, you built a magnet?” Bucky asks.

 

“Basically.  Also, Mark I.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, landing a blow against Tony’s thigh that Tony makes a face about, throwing an uppercut that glances off of Bucky’s jaw as he jerks to the side, “You built the first Iron Man suit in a _cave_?  You’re a fucking genius, man.”

 

“Well— _yeah_ ,” Tony says, and then it occurs to him, “Wait, you do know I’m actually a genius?”

 

“Figured that much out, thanks,” Bucky says smartly, feinting before landing another blow against Tony’s ribs.

 

“Ow, shit, _rude_ ,” Tony says, dancing away, “Pavlodar?”

 

“Part of Kazakh, SSR.  They had a base near where I fell.”

 

“Do you actually remember this?” Tony asks, and Bucky’s neutral expression lets him know he doesn’t hate him for the question.

 

“Bits and pieces,” Bucky says, “The base, absolutely.  The names, not so much.  I can still feel it sometimes, the saw.”

 

“Gross,” Tony says, and Bucky laughs.

 

Tony decides he’s just about had it with this physical dance, ducks around one of Bucky’s hits, knocks him in the stomach, and steps in close when he’s not expecting it.  “Hey,” Bucky says, grinning at him.

 

“I was thinking,” Tony says.

 

“Only if it involves hot cocoa.  Do you have peppermint anywhere?”

 

“I’ve heard a rumor that you make it from scratch,” Tony says.

  
“Depends on what you’re offering,” Bucky says, and Tony shivers when cool, metal fingers curl around his hip, tugging him closer.

 

“ _Lord of the Rings_ marathon.  Takes more or less 12 hours, involves elves, dwarves, hobbits, magic, and the One Ring.  _Or_ , double-whammy, that and _The Hobbit_ , which kind of suck, but there’s a dragon involved.”

 

“Predict my favorite character,” Bucky challenges.

 

“100% Samwise Gamgee.  You’re such a sucker for the good guy,” Tony says, and then kisses him before Bucky can point out they’re both bad guys.

 

Eventually, they make it upstairs.  Tony is feeling loose enough from the alcohol that he can feel himself getting tired, and Bucky’s interested in the dragon bit, so they part ways for shower and a change of clothes.  Tony is already on the couch munching on popcorn when Bucky comes in, and though he spots a mug of coffee, he heads into the kitchen to make hot chocolate.  He laces the rim of their glasses with peppermint, drops a stick inside, and smiles when Tony makes the most unholy noise about it.

 

They get through the first hour and a half of _An Unexpected Journey_ before he’s a goner, both mugs drained dry, the popcorn bowl empty, and this quiet noise of _shut the fuck up_ when he drops onto his side, head pillowed on Bucky’s thigh.

 

Bucky rearranges them before Tony really nods off, drops a pillow between his legs and coerces Tony closer until he’s draped across him, temple resting against his sternum while he fights to stay awake.  “You’re safe,” Bucky whispers, threading his metal fingers through Tony’s hair and massaging his skull lightly.  Almost in seconds, Tony’s breathing drops off the radar of wakefulness, and Bucky politely doesn’t point out Tony’s hand curled loosely in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, almost like he’s holding on.

 

And really, what the hell is he doing?

 

There’s—too much there, in his head, waiting to spill over.  There’s these blurred images of Steve’s shoulder pressed against his, of the heavy weight of his hand on Bucky’s thigh, his quiet, wanting voice, and he thinks he knows what they mean, but sometimes, the lines get darker, and he can’t see anything but Steve’s brilliant blue eyes.

 

Bucky closes his own eyes, tips his head back, and drifts off to the steady car crash of Tony’s heart, the reactor whirring warm and cool at the same time against his stomach.

 

The next time he opens them, it’s because there’s noise nearby.  He likes the way their main floor is set up, with the massive, beautiful kitchen only moments away from the living room on one side and a dining room on the other.  Even still, he can’t see from over the back of the sofa who’s making noise, just their shadow in the still dark hour.

 

He starts to move, realizes he can, and frowns at the empty stretch of sofa in front of him.  “Tony?” he asks softly.

 

Something clatters to the ground.

 

“Fucking assassins,” he hears Tony’s grumble.

 

“Maybe if you turned on the lights,” Bucky says, pulling himself upright, “Jarvis?”

 

“Friday,” Friday says, “Jarvis is napping.”

 

“That’s rude,” Tony says, and Bucky frowns when he winces as the lights come on in the kitchen.  “Fri, come on,” he mumbles, and she dims them significantly.  He watches Tony fumble around, making coffee and something that begins to smell like eggs, before he gets up off the sofa and meanders over.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks as he drops onto one of the chairs at the island, “It’s—three o’clock in the morning.”

 

“Couldn’t sleep, old dreams,” Tony says, his voice still pitched low and syllables slurring into one another, “Eggs?  Breakfast?  While I’m here?”

 

“Bruce likes them spicy,” Bucky says, so Tony knocks some sense into the cabinets until he finds the one with the spices, and Bucky’s eyes go wide as he watches him add a liberal amount of hot pepper flakes.  “Not _that_ spicy,” Bucky says.

 

Tony tosses a grin over his shoulder.  “Clearly, he dumbs them down for you.  He likes to set his mouth on fire.”

 

“Does he cook for you often?”

 

“It’s a long-standing arrangement.  Hey, sleeping beauty,” he adds at the quiet shush of feet across the floor.

 

“It’s 3:36 in the morning,” Bruce mumbles before he lifts Tony’s arm and steps underneath, looping his arms around his waist and settling against him.

 

“Were you sleeping?” Tony asks, and Bruce groans into his chest, “Thought so.”

 

“Make yourself useful,” Tony says a second later, and taps the counter beside him, finger moving in a circle.  A screen pops up in his wake, and he throws it back to Bucky, who lifts a tentative finger into the air to try to push it down to the island, and smiles delightedly when it happens.

 

It turns into a frown when he sees what Tony has presented him with.  “You’re being mean,” Bruce says, and Bucky looks up to find he’s taken the seat opposite him.

 

“It’s 3:38 in the morning,” Tony says by way of answer, “He’s a big boy.  He can handle himself.”

 

Bucky knows what this is, recognizes that Tony’s letting him have the choice, and so he nods.  Bruce reaches forward and easily expands the field, fingers moving deftly over the holographic screen.  “Tony,” he says like it’s an afterthought as he taps something once, pulls it up, and sends it back his way.

 

“See, now that’s being mean,” Tony says, brandishing his spatula at the coordinates Friday has finally localized on, “That one of yours, Barnes?”

 

He knows it is, and he hates how familiar it feels.  “Tea?” Bruce asks, already getting up.  Bucky exhales slowly before he starts working, fingers moving slower but getting the feel for it as he types up a tiny bit of code, rips a word from his memory, and plugs it into a command prompt.

 

“Shit, I’m hard,” Tony says, and Bucky laughs without meaning to.

 

“Oh, is this finally happening?” Bruce asks as he returns with the tea.

 

“What?” Bucky says quickly at the same time Tony says, “We _just_ talked about this, pooh bear.”

 

“That’s Rhodey’s, no thanks,” Bruce says, “I was trying to be polite, Stank.”

 

“Also Rhodey’s, so can it, jolly green.”

 

“It’s only a matter of time before Steve finds out,” Bruce says, and sips his tea.

 

Bucky pointedly ignores _that_ , and says, “That’s where they sawed the rest of my arm off.”

 

Bruce chokes on his tea, Tony drops the spatula, and Bucky accesses the rest of the cameras, gives them the layout of the base.

 

“Tony, finish cooking first,” Bruce demands.

 

He obeys, scrambling up the spiciest eggs any of them have ever eaten, surprising both of them when he drops a bowl of fruit down, as well, and they discuss this newly discovered Hydra base over tea and coffee.

 

Two hours later, when the compound starts to wake up, Bucky is curled up on Tony’s futon, a blanket mindfully tucked around his shoulders, Bruce is reading through the files they’ve found, and Tony is arguing with Friday in his left ear and Jarvis in his right.

 

——

 

Ultimately, they decide to stay put.  From what they can see of the base, it’s been inactive for some time, and Friday has withdrawn her suspicions about the lifeforms being extraterrestrial, but rather that she cannot yet identify them as human.  Tony refrains from pointing out that no confirmation of human life means extraterrestrial life because Steve looks like he wants nothing more than to run away.  Tony hates him just a little bit for it.

 

When they’ve finished meeting as a team over breakfast, he looks like he’s about to do just that when Bucky asks him about going to look for a dog.  Tony mutters into his coffee that he will _not_ be cleaning up after the mangy thing, and Bucky punches him in the shoulder for good measure.

 

Steve refuses to take the bike outside when there’s so much snow on the ground still, and Bucky coerces him into nicking one of Tony’s cars.  He shoots him a message so he won’t flip out when he sees a missing spot in the garage, and Tony sends him back devil horns.

 

They’re halfway to their first shelter when Bucky heaves a sigh and says, “Alright, mopey, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Steve says quickly, “It’s nothing.”

 

“That’s a fucking lie,” Bucky says, and Steve glances at him, doesn’t bother concealing his expression of distress.  “Come on,” Bucky says, twisting until he can drop his metal shoulder against the seat and face Steve, drawing one of his legs up, “Get it all out before we accidentally on purpose fall in love with the very first dog we see.”

 

“Not if it’s a Chihuahua,” Steve says, and Bucky grins.  “Stop that,” Steve says, not looking at him, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips, “It’s nothing, really.”

 

“Bull _shit_ , Rogers.  Let’s have it.  Spill your guts all over this beautiful car.”

 

“It has to do with Tony, actually,” Steve says, and Bucky frowns, stilling.  He doesn’t know why, but something opens in his stomach, something curious and terrified.  “I, uh—it’s stupid.  I’m so mad at myself for thinking it was okay.”

 

“What happened exactly?” Bucky asks slowly.

 

He watches Steve lift a hand to scrub across his face angrily, and he knows it the second before Steve’s hand slams back down on the wheel and says, “I kissed him.”

 

The thing inside of him yawns open, threatens to engulf him.  Bucky shifts slowly, settling until his back is against the seat again, and he carefully swallows past the thing trying to rise up in him.  It doesn’t feel quite like jealousy, but it’s ugly, and he thinks it might be anger.  “When?” he asks.

 

“Last night,” Steve says, “Right after dinner.  It was so— _god_ , I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think that he could actually get over all the shit in between us.  He’s such—he’s fucking pigheaded is what he is, and it was naïve, okay, I admit that.  I thought he could grow up and maybe—I don’t know, _something_.”

 

Bucky feels like he’s drowning.

 

“You really like him?” he asks, still staring straight ahead.

 

“I thought I did,” Steve says, “I thought—I don’t know, it felt like something was happening between us.  I spend so much of my time in the lab now, I thought maybe, _maybe_ he might be seeing it, too, and then he goes and pulls the fucking _friendship_ card.”

 

“What do you mean?”  He doesn’t know how he’s having this conversation, not while he’s trying to stamp down this urge to kick the car door clean up, find the nearest person, and wrap metal fingers around their throat.  He tries to believe this is true, tries to believe he doesn’t just want to do it to Steve, or _fuck_ , probably just Tony.

 

“He said—” Steve breaks off, shaking his head, and it’s a moment before he continues, “He said he was obviously terrible at being friends with people if I thought kissing him was okay.”

 

“Maybe he just doesn’t—like you like that?” Bucky tries, and then he has to close his eyes.

 

Steve lets out this noise that’s half disbelief, half uncertainty, and then the car stops.  “Hey,” he says, and Bucky quickly opens his eyes, looks over at him, “Everything okay?  You look off.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, forcing a smile, “Just had a long night.”

 

He gets out before Steve can see anything else on his face, starts to shove his hands in his pockets, and sighs when he realizes he forgot to bring a glove for his left hand.  There’s a small part of him that wants to send Tony a nasty message, but the more masochistic side of him wants to let it simmer and burn inside of him until he’s close enough to strike, drip poison through Tony’s veins.

 

 _Dude, breathe_.  It’s Sam’s voice that brings him back, and Bucky inhales slowly, lets it out even slower, and then smiles when Steve comes around the car, still looking worried.  “How do you feel about a husky?” Bucky asks.

 

“No way,” Steve says, “German shepherd.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Alright.”  He leans against Steve on the way in, who brightens by the time they’re being shown into the dog room.

 

——

 

Two things happen at once that Bruce is not prepared for.  One, someone wraps a warm, soft flannel blanket around his shoulders.  Two, the someone transforms into Tony as he holds out a mug of steaming peppermint tea.  Bruce sniffs it, blinks at him, and watches Tony sit down opposite him on the sofa, where he’d been taking a breather from the lab.

 

“Hi,” Tony says, scooting closer and nudging their knees together.

 

Bruce smiles, hands the mug back to Tony, and tucks the blanket around both of them, which immediately gives Tony the greenlight to curl up close, dropping his head onto Bruce’s shoulder after he’s sipped his tea.

 

“You’re very predictable,” Bruce says, leaning his head on top of Tony’s.

 

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” Tony says before he pulls his legs up and somehow contorts himself to tuck his bare toes under Bruce’s thigh.

 

“Ah, those are cold,” Bruce says, reaching down a hand to curl around Tony’s ankle, “Why do you hate socks?”

 

“Unless you want the lab to turn into a slip and slide, you’ll deal with the cold toes,” Tony mumbles, and he sounds so petulant that Bruce sighs, releasing his ankle and reaching for one of his hands.

 

“Confidentiality rules apply outside of the lab,” Bruce says.

 

“There are two things,” Tony says.

 

“Are they related?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is one of them about Steve?”

 

“Don’t do that to me,” Tony says, burrowing closer to Bruce, who frowns, lifting his head.

 

“Tony, what’s going on?” he asks.  When Tony doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move, Bruce squeezes his hand and says, “Please talk to me.”

 

Tony flips out his other hand, fingers spread wide.  Bruce understands the gesture—all their shit, on the table, guts spilling out on the floor.  “I’m going to make a mess,” Tony says, and then, on an exhale, “Steve kissed me, and I kind of freaked out on him, said, _you can’t just do that_ , but I once said that to Obadiah when he kissed me after the fucking funeral, and I _can’t sleep_.  I thought I had let it go, let _him_ go after he died, and there it is, bubbling right up and threatening to—fuck, drown me.”

 

Bruce considers his options as he lifts his gaze at a noise, smiles when he sees Betty, and asks, “How do you feel about a second opinion?”

 

“Only if she promises to stay,” Tony says, having noticed Betty, as well.

 

“Honey, I’m not leaving either of you,” Betty says as she comes over, taking a seat against Bruce’s legs, one of her hands coming up to curl around Tony’s knee.  “Was it only once?” she asks.

 

Tony shakes his head.

 

“Was it ever more than a kiss?” Bruce asks.

 

Tony inhales, swallows, and shakes his head.  “I wouldn’t—Jesus, I wouldn’t let him, but that didn’t stop him from trying.  Steve just—he didn’t even ask.”

 

“Neither did Bucky,” Bruce says, and Tony scowls when Betty doesn’t look surprised at this news.

 

“You’re the very worst,” he tells Bruce even as Betty kisses Tony’s knuckles apologetically.  “That’s different,” he finally settles on, “I was giving off all sorts of green lights with that asshole.  I let him get close, Steve—” Tony stops, closing his eyes and turning his nose into Bruce’s shirt, trying to find some kind of solid ground to steady his shaking soul.  Bruce and Betty just sit with him, holding onto him, and helping him swim to the surface.  Finally, he continues, “Steve didn’t give me the option.  It was happening before I had a chance to stop it.  And look, okay, I know I’m not exactly innocent when it comes to this type of shit, I probably deserve this or provoked it in some way, but—”

 

“Never again,” Betty cuts him off, straightening, “Don’t you dare do that.  It is not your fault, and you have every right to be upset.  Tony, stop,” she adds when he starts to protest, “Absolutely not.  Steve can read into the situation whichever way he wants, but even a stranger could see that you were just being kind to him.  Is this because of all the time he spends in the lab?  Does he think no one else does that?”

 

“Whether you believe it or not,” Bruce says, “everyone enjoys your company, Tony.  There’s a reason they keep coming down there.”

 

“You’re both—” Tony tries valiantly to insult them, but Betty looks so fierce, and Bruce’s hand is drawing slow circles into one of his shoulders, and he just gives up, “You’re my favorite mad scientists.”  That breaks them, pulling a wicked grin to Betty’s mouth as Bruce shakes with a quiet laugh.  “I can’t believe there’s going to be a wild animal in this building,” he says after sitting up.

 

“Yeah, how did that happen?” Bruce says, “You hate animals.”

 

“I like cats,” Tony says indignantly.

 

“Of course you do,” Betty says, so Tony sticks his tongue out at her.

 

——

 

Somehow, their short mission to find a dog turns into an all-day affair.  The first shelter is a success, and, several hours later, they’re leaving with a six-month-old German shepherd that Bucky absolutely refuses to call anything else but Grant, which really, he just does to watch Steve’s grin stupidly.  Grant is an absolute _bundle_ of energy, overjoyed at the mere thought of both of them, and Bucky’s starting to wonder if he’ll actually be a success at emotional support.  He’s in the middle of this thought when they get back into the car, Steve suggests a dog-friendly restaurant for lunch, and Bucky’s reminded, sharply, of _Steve and Tony_.

 

Grant barrels his way up to the front of the car, dumps himself into Bucky’s lap, and leans his full weight on him.  Steve looks over in surprise, smiling, and Bucky quite nearly bursts into tears.  He’s never felt like he’s going to unravel at the edges this badly before, and so he threads his human hand through Grant’s fur and turns to watch the city skip by.

 

He decides, within about twenty minutes, that Grant is a godsend.  He follows at Bucky’s left, sits without having to be told, and tucks his head beneath Bucky’s arm to settle on his thigh while they look at their menus.  It keeps him grounded in this moment, sitting across from Steve, and forces himself to swallow it down in favor of a peaceful afternoon.

 

“ _Lion King_ ’s this weekend,” Steve says after they order, “Are you excited?”

 

“Actually, I forgot,” Bucky says, “But yes.”

 

“It’ll be nice, having everyone together,” Steve says.

 

“Even Tony?” Bucky asks because he’s trying to perform psychological harm on both of them at the same time.

 

“He—” Steve begins, looking conflicted, and Bucky waits him out, continues to pet Grant and try to relax his tightening jaw.  “He texted me,” Steve says finally as he leans to the side and pulls out his phone, handing it across the table.

 

Bucky wants to crush it in his hand.

 

Instead, he slides past the lock and reads the surprisingly long message.  _Shit on me all you want for texting, but out loud words suck.  That wasn’t cool.  I’m not apologizing for trying to be nice to you even if I am shit at it.  I was trying to be your friend, and you took advantage of that.  And no, before you ask, this will not develop into anything.  I’m not currently available, nor do I plan to be in the near future.  Jesus, available like I’m some fucking prize you can win.  Hope the dog hunt is going well._

The anger snaps inside of him, plunges back into the well where the Winter Soldier is hiding, and is extinguished.

 

Well.  _Shit_.

 

“That’s, uh—incredibly mature of him,” Bucky says, handing the phone back.

 

Steve nods.  “Yeah,” he agrees, “I didn’t even think of it like that.  I feel like such an asshole.”

 

“You are,” Bucky says, smiling even as Steve turns this look of utter despair on him, “Look, he likes food, right?  Just get him something sugary from that bakery you guys like, some coffee, and call it a day.  He’ll get over it eventually.”

 

Steve nods slowly, though he brightens when their own food arrives.  “I’m glad you two are getting along,” Steve says, and Bucky almost tells him.

 

Instead, he tucks into his burger, groans about how good it is, and smacks Steve when he tries to steal one of his fries.  “Dude, no,” Bucky says, though he hands one down to Grant, “I will literally eat fries for the rest of my life, I don’t know how I forgot how good they were.”

 

“You were brainwashed,” Steve teases, and it speaks volumes that Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Yeah, but fries,” he says, “How do they kick that natural instinct out?”

 

“Natural instinct?” Steve echoes, grinning.

 

“Stop hoarding the ketchup,” Bucky snaps, snatching it from his hand.

 

Steve laughs at him, and that settles it.  There’s nothing left there that Bucky wants to tear apart, nothing that stirs that cold urge inside of him, and the rest of the day turns out far better than any other time he’s left the compound.

 

They stop by the bakery to get Tony donuts and coffee, and a lemon pastry because Bucky just _stares_ at it.  Someone sees his metal hand rubbing a circle on the top of Grant’s head and approaches him with something bordering on awe.  “That is so cool,” he hears, and turns, already nervous.  “Are you Captain America’s best friend?”  He’s no more than eight, and Bucky feels his nerves melt into something much warmer.

 

“He wishes,” he says, and the little boy beams.  Bucky carefully steps back, revealing Steve frowning at the menu in the bakery, and they get so side-tracked that Bucky manages to get two lemon pastries before Steve notices.

 

“That was awesome,” he says when they’re back on the street, “See, not everyone’s bad.”

 

“He was tiny, he hasn’t discovered being awful yet,” Bucky says through a mouthful of powdery sugar.

 

“Listen, I was his age when you pretty much saved my life.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re an old fart now, but I’m still saving your life, punk.  Oh, what’s that?”  Bucky pulls up to a stop, looking at the menu on the window as Steve looks up at the sign.

 

“Must be new,” he says, “I don’t recognize it.”

 

“Just opened,” Bucky says, indicating the top of the menu, where their opening date is proudly displayed as last week, “Is this that Thai shit you guys are always going on about?”

 

“How have you not had Thai yet?”

 

“I’ve had curry,” Bucky says, “That was fun.”

 

“When?”

 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, not looking at Steve as he continues reviewing the menu.  “Tony got it one time, said I wasn’t fully acclimated into the 21st century until I’d had my sinuses knocked out by Thai curry.”

 

“Yeah, he tried that one on me, too.”

 

This time, Bucky grins back at him.  “The food you eat is so boring.  How did you manage to choke that down?”

 

“I didn’t, I gave it to Bruce.”

  
Bucky starts laughing softly, but it’s this open, easy kind of laugh, and he can tell it reminds Steve of when they were younger by the way his smile gets nostalgic around the edges.  “Come on, it’s getting cold,” he says finally, nudging at Steve until he opens his arm.  Bucky loops his metal arm through, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket and effectively linking them together.  Grant tries to walk in between them, Bucky pats his right thigh, and he immediately comes around, lifting his nose up to press wetly against Bucky’s fingers before they continue on.

 

It’s almost four before they finally get back to the compound, having stopped at a bookstore on the way home.  Bucky had intended, at the start of the day, to avoid Tony at all costs, but now, he assures Grant the elevator is not going to eat him, and they go down into the sublevels.

 

He nearly crashes into the door of the lab when he tries to pull it open, and it doesn’t budge.  Bucky frowns, looking down at the handle and then up into the lab, trying to find Tony, who is nowhere to be found.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis’s crisp voice startles him, “Mister Stark is currently preoccupied, but he has asked me to scan your prints so that you have access in the future.”

 

“Friday usually just lets me in,” Bucky says even as he takes a step back.

 

“Unfortunately, Friday’s security protocols were not built as mine are, and regardless of the fact, Mister Stark insisted.”

 

“Sure, whatever,” Bucky says, glancing at Grant, “Do I just—”

 

“Please place your dominant hand on the panel to the right, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

Bucky frowns, looking down at his flesh and blood hand.  Sighing, he lifts it to the panel that’s appeared, watching blue light pass under it.  He waits until Jarvis has confirmed his prints have been saved, and then he tries the handle again.

 

The door gives, and Grant steps in front of him, sniffing at the air as Bucky follows him.

 

“Tony?” he asks into the soft lullaby of noise.

 

Even in the dead of night, there’s always some kind of machine working quietly, but Bucky prefers it right now, when Tony’s off tinkering somewhere, the combined energy of Jarvis and Friday are creating nonexistent currents of electricity, and the various bots are building or cleaning up messes they’ve undoubtedly made.

 

He walks in farther, still looking around, until he finds one sneakered foot planted firmly against the ground, the other curled around the lip of a piece of protruding metal.  Grant follows him over toward the absolute monstrosity Tony’s work on, and when he tries to nudge his foot, his own booted foot sails right through.  “Uh, what,” Bucky says, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he backpedals, heart jackhammering through his ribs.

 

The image in front of him flickers, Bucky goes still, and then it’s gone.  “Aw, shucks,” he hears from above him— _above him_ —and he quickly wheels around, snapping his gaze up toward the high ceiling.  Peter waves at him from where he’s hanging upside down from one of the support beams.

 

“Holy shit, Parker,” Bucky says, exhaling.

 

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you, but then you were already here, so figured I’d try it out.  Clearly—” he pauses to swing, legs unhooking from around the support beam, and lands skillfully a few feet to his right in a crouch, “—quite a few kinks to work out.  Papa Stark’s in a containment room, so you’ll have to wait him out.  Is that a _dog_?”

  
“Containment room?” Bucky asks because he’s never seen those.

 

“Yeah, when he’s handling things he shouldn’t be,” Peter says, waving over toward the back end of the lab where Bucky’s hasn’t ventured before as he kneels down to say hello to Grant, “He used to do it out in the open, but Friday insisted since there are more people in here now.”

 

“How considerate.”  Peter just makes a small noise, one that lets Bucky knows he’s lost his attention to Grant, who is getting a particularly wonderful scratch behind the ear at the moment and who obediently stays when Bucky tells him to.

 

He makes his way deeper into the lab, stopping at a thick glass wall.  Beyond, he can see Tony, in jeans and long sleeves, lifting his fists into the air as he cheers, and Bruce, sitting cross-legged on a nearby table, shaking his head.  Bucky raps his knuckles across the wall, and both look over, Bruce waving as Tony smiles bright enough to outwit the sun.

 

They tidy up whatever experiment they were carrying out, and Bucky watches them leave through a door, reappearing a few inches to his left.  “Hey hot stuff,” Tony says when he’s back in the lab, “Bruce was letting me play with his blood.”

 

“That sounds vampiric,” Bruce says on his way by, and then, “Bucky, have you ever seen _Hotel Transylvania_?”

 

“Bad idea,” Tony says at the same time Peter shouts, “Best idea ever!”

 

“I’ll put it on the list,” Bucky says, smiling.

 

Bruce leaves them, and Bucky’s about to speak when Tony steps close, still beaming, and kisses him.  It’s tender in a way Bucky was never expecting, and he forgets, for a moment, why he was down here in the first place.

 

When he pulls back, Tony says, “I have two very short stories to tell you.”

 

“I know one of them,” Bucky says.

 

“You don’t seem mad at me,” Tony says, frowning.

 

“Seems like it happened against your will,” Bucky says, reaching out to grab onto Tony’s forearms before he can run away, tugging him close again.

 

“I said two stories,” Tony reminds him.  Bucky just nods and kisses him again, lets himself drown for a moment before he resurfaces and releases him.  “Oh, now I don’t want the other one in this space,” Tony says before he walks away.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but follows him, tapping his heel with the front of his boot to let him know he’s not getting off the hook that easily.  “So that’s not the first time someone’s done that and been a close friend, and while Steve’s was far less memorable compared to Obadiah, I’m giving you another piece of my shit.”

 

“I think we need a new term for that,” Bucky says, tapping Tony’s heel again.  When he turns, ready to yell at him for trying to trip him, Bucky continues, “He was your friend, right?  Before Iron Man?”

 

“Before, yeah,” Tony says, and he starts to look away when he decides he doesn’t want to hide this pain, and instead holds Bucky’s gaze, “He worked closely with my father, helped me after they died.  For him, in more ways than one.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks.

 

“Nah, that’s what I have Bruce for.  What’s on your mind, tinman?”

 

“ _I’m_ the tinman?  Pretty sure—”

 

“Oh please, I’ve been called far better things than that, be clever.”

 

“Alright, Shellhead.”  Peter laughs hard enough, he almost topples over his support beam.  “What are you doing tonight?” Bucky asks.

 

“You, I hope,” Tony says, and immediately wishes he could take it back when he sees something that looks terrifyingly like doubt flicker through his brown eyes.

 

“Instead,” Bucky saves them both, “I’d like to take you out on a date.  If you’ll have me.”

 

“Wait,” Peter says, swinging back upside down, “Is this a thing that’s happening?  Like, is this one of those things we’re allowed to gossip about?”

 

“What exactly did your NDA say about the lab?”

 

“Aw, pops, the confidentiality clause _again_?” Peter feigns annoyance as he pulls himself upright.

 

“You had him sign an NDA about what happens in the lab?” Bruce pipes up.

 

“What happens here stays here,” Tony says, “I don’t need Captain No Fun or Director Batshit down here every time something explodes.”

 

“Dinner,” Bucky says, drawing his attention back, “I guarantee it’s somewhere you’ve never been.”

 

“Can we put money down on this?” Peter asks.

 

“I’m putting it down on Bucky if we are,” Bruce says.

 

“Traitor!” Tony exclaims.

 

“Yeah way, me too,” Peter says, “I know exactly what place you’re thinking of.”

 

“How?” Bucky says, looking up at him.

 

Peter winks.  “Wade and I went on their opening night.  It’s amazing.”

 

“Dinner,” he repeats, looking back to Tony, “And maybe something else.”

 

“Do I get a hint?”

 

“Nope.  I’ll pick you up at seven.  Grant!” Bucky calls as he turns away, heading for the door.

 

“Grant?  Who the fuck is—oh my god, you actually adopted a fucking dog!” Tony shouts, and then sneezes as soon as Grant passes him.  “Jarvis, dog protocol,” Tony says, his whole face scrunching up in an effort to avoid sneezing again.

 

“Shut up,” Bruce says, “No way are you allergic.”

 

“Mildly,” Tony mutters, and then loses the battle, sneezing again, “Jesus shit, this is awful, Jarvis, hurry.”

 

Bucky leaves the lab practically cackling.

 

——

 

Sometimes, it just happens.

 

There are no warnings signs, no triggers, no inhale of fear before he’s yanked from his conversation with Sam and dropped into Tomsk.  He spent more time there than anywhere else, where they truly began to perfect the process of ripping him from cyro, jarring his memory into pieces, and providing him with direction.

 

Between one breath and the next, Sam’s face turns into one of his handlers, and he goes still, unsure if he’s been allowed to move.  One of their favorite games during his conditioning, when they’d decided they were on break, would be to ask him to retrieve something and subsequently punish him for moving.

 

Now, he holds onto his exhale as the man in front of him says, “Temps de l’inventaire, soldat.  **Inventory time, soldier.** ”

 

Bucky blinks, swallows, tries to remember how to form his vowels correctly to appease their awful French, “De quoi?  **Of what?** ”

 

The man sneers, picks up a box of bullets from the table he’s leaning on, and upends them on the floor.  “Compte les,  **Count these,** ” he spits.  Bucky holds his stance, forces his metal fingers to remain open as though this is not a battle he deems worthy.  “Maintenant, soldat, **Now, soldier,** ” the handler says, jerking up off the table.

  
Bucky averts his gaze on instinct, drops it off to his right, and a hand comes down on his left shoulder, ready to destroy what little freedom he has left.  He strikes without thinking, snarls something nasty in Russian as his metal fingers close around flesh, _Я приветствую ад_ , **I welcome hell,** and drops to one knee, bringing his quarry with him.

 

Unexpectedly, two booted feet hit him in the sternum and send him flying back.  Something garbled filters through, forms into words, “Cap, gym, _now_!”

 

“Капитан Роджерс мертв,  **Captain Rogers is dead,** ” Bucky snarls at him.

 

“Friday, translate!”

 

“He is informing you that Captain Rogers is dead, Mister Wilson, though contrary to that belief, the Captain is on his way down as we speak.”

 

The handler gets up, spitting blood on the floor.  “Отбой, солдат,  **Stand down, soldier,** ” he commands, “Или вы думаете, я не буду отрываться от вас кусок за куском?  **Or do you think I will not rip this from you piece by piece?** ”

 

He gestures at the arm, and Bucky pauses, fingers flaring out again, relaxing his palm.  He lets his lips curl up, a wicked pretense at a smile, and whispers, “Я приветствую ад.  **I welcome hell.** ”

 

“A reference toward hell, it seems,” a strange, lilting female voice comes through, “My apologies, Mister Wilson, Sergeant Barnes’s Russian is old.  Translating is proving difficult.  I believe he said, _I welcome hell_.”

 

“I’ll give him hell,” another voice says, and Bucky pauses again, head jerking to the side.  “Alright,” the voice says, “Come on.  Right here, Bucky.  Right in front of you.”

 

“Sam, what’s going on?”

 

“Hang back, hang on.”

 

“Am spus cumva că poți să vorbești, vierme?   **Did I say you could talk, maggot?** ” the handler says, and Bucky’s chin drops at the switch in language, letting it flood through him.  “"Ridică de gloanțele astea și incepe sa, la dracului, le numeri.  Теперь.   **Pick up these bullets, and fucking count them.  Now.** ”

 

Bucky lets one of his knees drop, the other crashing down beside it, inhaling before he opens his eyes and finds he’s staring at a padded surface.

 

“Bucky,” there’s that voice again, something so close to the edge of his memory that it hurts.  He lifts his gaze, confusion drawing his brows together.  “There you are,” a man says, carefully approaching him, “You with me?”

 

Bucky shakes his head.

 

“Sam,” another voice says, and Bucky exhales, shoulders sagging.   _Steve_.

 

It takes several long, awful moments before he says, in a voice scraped raw, “I’m here.”

 

“Yeah, better fucking convince me,” Sam says, curling a hand around his shoulder, “Year, location, and name.”

 

“2016, Manhattan, New York, and—”

 

He can hear Steve holding his breath.

 

What do they call him?

 

He can hear the sound it makes, but he can’t pull the letters back together, can’t make them form into something coherent.  “Shit, okay,” Sam says, his hand leaving his shoulder.  Bucky looks up, finds Steve looking down at him with an expression he can’t read.  “What’s your play, Cap?”

 

“No play,” Steve says before he comes forward, holding out a hand.

 

Bucky swallows, looking up at him and waiting until Steve nods, a quick jerk of his head, before he takes his hand and lets himself be pulled upright.  Without warning, Steve pulls him against him, hands coming up to curl around his jaw as he leans their foreheads together.  “You’re safe,” he says.

 

Bucky closes his eyes against the too bright blue of Steve’s and wishes he could just let go of these breaths rattling around inside of him.

 

——

 

It doesn’t get better.  He’s learned to acknowledge that sometimes it just won’t.  Some days, he’s trapped inside his head for hours on end, trying to claw his way to the surface for a half minute of air before he’s being thrown back under.  Some days, he spends locked in the bathroom, hid in the corner, just trying to survive.

 

Today is not as bad as Bucky thinks it could be, but he still ends up smacking Steve’s face against the elevator when he turns and finds he’s turned into Zola.

 

He’s got his head on for enough time to distract Steve from following him into the room, and Steve has enough sense not to bust the door when he finds it’s been locked, though he does try to convince him to let Grant into the room, which Bucky refuses, citing that he’s afraid of hurting him.  Steve tries not to sound stern when he reminds him this is literally what Grant is for, but Bucky ignores him.  He strips out of his clothes, turns on the water in the shower, and has nearly ten minutes of clarity before he’s disappearing again.

 

Bucky doesn’t know how long he spends in the shower, just that Jarvis’s voice is what brings him back, “Sergeant Barnes, Mister Stark has sent up a few items that might pique your interest.”

 

He knows that name,  _Barnes_ , knows that it’s supposed to fit onto his skin somehow, and yet, he can’t quite place why.

 

With a long exhale, Bucky pushes up to his feet, shuts off the water, and dries off before he heads back into his room, intending to just curl up in the middle of his bed and try to sleep, or just hide.  He stops over the threshold at the sight of a bowl of cherries, bottle of cold pressed apple juice, and tablet.  There’s a note stuck on the tablet that he reads slowly.

 

_Bruce buys this shit from Whole Foods and loves it.  I’m not going to pretend I don’t also think it’s the nectar of the gods.  Also, he tells me that cherries help when he can’t get out of his head, so whatever, give that a go.  The tablet is loaded with a few choice scifi films from the 80s that you might like, far too many documentaries that Bruce and Peter argued relentlessly over, and my favorite movie of all time._

Though Steve has constantly reminded him that crying is completely normal, even that he encourages it, Bucky has never felt the urge to show that side of himself to Steve.  Even now, decades later, when Steve has bigger shoulders than he does, he still feels like he has to protect him from the worst of the world.

 

This, though—this snaps whatever careful control he’s always holding onto, and he sags onto the bed, eyes reddening as he tries to force it all back.  He manages well enough until he’s tucked up with the cherries and  _Fifth Element_ , which he assumes is Tony’s favorite movie as it’s in a different file, labeled in large letters MANDATORY FOR DATING TONY STARK, which really just makes him sigh fondly.  Without warning, nearly at the movie’s end, when he’s fallen  _hard_  for Leelo, she up and gives her life to save the universe, and he just starts bawling.

 

When all is said and done, eventually, Bucky looks at the clock and finds that it’s almost 8PM.  “Jarvis,” he says without thinking.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Can you—is there a way to—I don’t know what I’m trying to ask,” Bucky finally admits.

 

“Would you like me to patch you through to the lab so that you might speak with Mister Stark?”

 

“Is there anyone else there?” Bucky asks, feeling unsafe in his skin.

 

“I shall put you through to Mister Stark’s personal line.”

 

Bucky shifts until he can lie on his left side, tucking his knees up close.  “Hey,” Tony’s voice filters through a moment later, “What’s up?”

 

“I’m sorry I forgot,” Bucky says quietly.

 

“Fuck you,” Tony says, “That’s the most bullshit thing I’ve ever heard you say.  Are you hungry?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky says automatically, thinking about the cherries he ate almost three hours ago.

 

“Good because I’ve got takeaway coming in from that new Thai place.  Are you taking visitors?”

 

“Did Peter tell you that’s where I was thinking of?”

 

“Nah, I’m just awesome like that.  Seriously, it’s literally coming through the front door right now.”

 

“Door’s unlocked,” Bucky says even as he stretches and shuffles across the bed to do just that.  He thinks clothes might be a good idea, so he finds a pair of loose sweats and a light hoodie that he can disappear into if need be.

 

Tony has absolutely no idea what he’s about to encounter when the doors open to the living quarters of the compound, but it’s not Steve demanding to know what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

 

“Bringing food up to our mutual friend,” Tony says, sidestepping Steve and  _the dog_ , which is standing so close to Steve, he’s not sure how he’s not tripping over him.

 

“I heard that obnoxious movie playing in there,” Steve says, “What is going on?”

 

“I sent him a list of distractions,” Tony says, trying to leave Steve behind, but then he’s in their wing, and Steve’s still behind him.  “ _What_ ,” Tony groans, drawing out the word when he feels him hovering.

 

Steve stops just short of Bucky’s door, his mouth drawn down.  “Don’t hurt him,” he says.

 

“Why does no one ever warn anyone against doing that to me?” Tony mutters before he twists the knob, pausing a fraction of a second to delight in Steve’s shocked expression at it being unlocked, and then he steps inside, quickly clicking the lock behind him.

 

“That smells amazing,” Bucky says, though Tony can’t find a body to fit the voice.

 

“It comes with another movie recommendation,” Tony says as he comes in, looking around.  He notices the wedge of light beneath the bathroom door, and heads over to the bed, putting the bag down on the nightstand before he starts tidying up, of all things.  Really, he doesn’t do much more than toss the tear-soaked pillow over the edge of the bed, pile the others—and extras stored in the closet—against the headboard, and shucks off his pants before he gets in bed.

 

“Jay, cue credits.”

 

Bucky comes back out in his sweats and hoodie, so Tony wiggles his legs, and Bucky smiles, almost shy, before he drops his sweats and climbs in next to him.

 

“Okay, so I did that ordering food while hungry thing,” Tony says, “Or is that shopping while hungry?  Whatever, I do both.”

 

“So you got everything?” Bucky says, with a hint of a laugh in his voice, as he looks in the bag.

 

“You only get to eat if you can answer a question, though,” Tony says, snapping the bag shut.  Bucky watches his fingers drum out a nonsensical rhythm on the brown paper before he looks up and nods.  “What is your name?” Tony asks.

 

Bucky starts to tell him that he doesn’t know when it occurs to him that he  _does_.  Somewhere in between his discarded cherry pits and laughing at the dumbass jokes in  _Fifth Element_ , he remembered.  “Bucky,” he says softly.

 

“I still like James better,” Tony says, and opens the bag.

 

They spend the night absolutely gorging themselves on incredible Thai while Tony points out every possible inaccuracy and implausibility, no matter how small, in the first thirty minutes of the new  _Ghostbusters_  until Bucky finally cracks, hiding his face in Tony’s ribs while he laughs.  After, Tony asks Jarvis to put on “that stupid ass show on Netflix”, which turns out to be  _New Girl_ , which Sam and Bucky have been binge-watching, and which Tony secretly loves.  Somehow, in between yellow curry with  _all_  the vegetables and Zooey Deschanel singing about Thanksgiving, Bucky drops off, tucked close to Tony and finally at ease.  Tony just wraps an arm tighter around him and shifts until he’s comfortable.

 

—— 

 

When Tony wakes, it’s still early.  There’s a heavy weight draped across his chest, and for a moment, he can’t breathe, just thinking of what the threat it could possibly be this time until he looks down and finds Bucky.

 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says.

 

“Perhaps you would like me to inform you before you fall asleep next time, sir?” Jarvis quips right back.

 

Tony has a retort ready, but swallows it down instead, focusing his attention on getting out of this unscathed.  Bucky is relatively unaffected by Tony moving out from under him, and he can’t decide if it’s because he’s letting himself be moved or if he actually trusts Tony enough to truly sleep around him.  Either way, it’s an unsettling revelation, and it only makes him move faster.

 

Once he’s out of the bedroom, Tony makes a beeline for the communal floor, following the winding halls until he’s finally out of the living quarters.  He makes for the coffee machine, resigning to the fact that sleep is futile.

 

“That’s not the direction your suite is located in,” a voice says, and Tony quite literally hits the floor.

 

Really, in his defense, it’s 2:14AM, and no one else in their right mind is usually up at this time, not even Steve when his brain is haunting him.

 

He still has no idea who it is until he hears the near cackle, and he grumbles at the floor before he picks himself up.  “Douchebag,” he says for good measure when he rights himself, pointing an angry finger at Clint, who just grins good-naturedly.

 

“So listen,” Clint says as Tony turns back to the coffee machine, frowning liberally at it.  Tony hears him drop an elbow loudly onto the island, and sighs when he realizes Clint won’t take pity on him and make the coffee for him.

 

“I’m listening,” Tony mutters, banging around until something resembling coffee is brewing, there’s bread in the toaster, and he’s preparing to invent a few new profane words if he can’t find that jam Bruce brought back from the market.

 

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Clint says, and then is silent until Tony’s dropped a slice of bread with apple cider jam on it.  “That smells good,” he says, so Tony makes a loud, frustrated noise, passing over his mug and going to fill a second.

 

“Why are you awake, Barton?” Tony growls into his mug.

 

“Could ask you the same question,” Clint says, and Tony looks about, about to snap at him when he realizes how truly exhausted Clint looks.  “Yeah,” Clint says, seeing the recognition dawn across Tony’s face, “Same reason as you.  What’s your poison?”

 

“Drowned tonight,” Tony says.

 

“Cool,” Clint says, “Electrocution.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

“It’s strange, I thought your suite was in the opposite direction.”

 

“Mhm,” Tony grunts, biting into his toast.

 

“So you’re either screwing Cap or Barnes,” Clint says, and Tony just shrugs, chewing.  Clint’s grin is near enough to Nat’s that Tony feels a little like congratulating him on it.  “Cap?” Clint guesses.

 

Tony gives him _the look_ , and Clint laughs.  “Fair enough, there’s a lot of bad blood there.  Not that there isn’t between you and Barnes, but Steve feels personal, like his personality bothers you.”  Tony mimes hitting a nail.  “So Barnes?”  Tony shrugs again, goes to finish off his toast and finds it gone.

 

“Oh,” he says sadly.

 

“If I make you food, will you confirm?”

 

“Or deny,” Tony says, draining his coffee and handing that over for good measure.

 

Clint makes crêpes,  _first of all_.  To make matters worse, he puts  _strawberries_  in them and fucking  _Nutella_ , so really, it’s not Tony’s fault when he says, “Confirm.  You tell Cap, and I’ll string your balls up as the tree topper this year.”

 

“Are we finally doing a team Christmas?” Clint says, looking a little too gleeful for such a miserable holiday.

 

“Three Christmases ago, when you all fucked off, I almost died.  And then, two Christmases ago, Cap decided to break DC, and I was dealing with that bullshit fallout for the rest of the century.  Oh, and let’s not forget last year.”

 

“Ultron,” Clint agrees, “Yeah.  We’ve not really had good Christmases, I agree.  Listen, deal.  I won’t say a word,  _and_  I’ll stay here for Christmas.”

 

“This feels like a one-sided deal,” Tony points out.

 

“Oh, right,” Clint says, “I’ve got this arrow idea.”

 

“More coffee,” Tony says, already getting up, “And somewhere I can blueprint.”

 

“Blueprint is not a verb.”

 

“You’re not a verb,” Tony retaliates because it is still before 3AM, after all.

 

Clint joins him downstairs, actually shivering when they enter.  “Fucking cold in here,” he says a second before he notices the blanket on the futon, and he hurries over, grabbing it to tuck around his shoulders and carry like a cape over to Tony’s desk, where he’s frowning at what Friday’s brought up when he wakes her up.  “I miss Thor,” Clint says as the blanket billows out behind him.  He starts to grab a chair, notices the screen, as well, and pauses, hovering at Tony’s side.  “Okay, forget the arrows,” he says, “I’ll wake the team.”

 

“Hurry,” Tony says, and then dives in, grabbing a nearby earbud to find out as much as he can from Friday.

 

As Clint sprints from the lab, the blanket drifting to settle on the ground, Friday rattling off in his ear, Tony takes a moment to look again at the massive weapon being installed in the base in Yakutskaya, and hits the big red button that he’s supposed to reserve for emergencies.

 

Steve is the first one downstairs, surprisingly.  He comes in half-dressed, wearing his Cap pants and yanking a fitted undershirt over his messy blonde hair as he comes in.  He’s barefoot and sleep tousled, and Tony feels a little bad for earlier before he reminds himself that he doesn’t have to.

 

“What’s going on?” Steve says, his syllables jumbling together a little.

 

“Just wake up?” Tony quips, directing power to another screen as Steve grabs a chair.

 

“Mm,” Steve hums, blinking.  “That looks nuclear,” he says finally.

 

“Gets worse.  Fri, bring Cap up to speed.”  Tony filters them out as Steve discusses the issue at hand with Friday—not only are they installing a nuclear weapon into the base, she’s officially confirmed non-human lifeforms and identified them as Skrulls—“Really,” Tony adds, “Is that necessary?”—and snatched a piece of data that lets them know this is definitely Hydra.

 

Nat comes over the comms as Steve is finishing up, “Uh, Stark?”

 

“Everything good, Widow?” Steve asks, ever the professional.

 

“That’s quite a bit of lighting,” Nat informs them.

 

“I hit the big red button labeled  _do not push_ ,” Tony says before he gets up, jogging over to his armor.

 

“Quinjet in fifteen,” Steve says before he’s gone.

 

Tony digs out his under suit, yanking it on as fast as he can, sends a suit up to the hangar where the quinjet is stored, and follows Steve’s path out of the lab and into the elevator.  It stops on the communal floor to pick up Bruce and Bucky, who is steadfast about coming along.  Nat and Steve are already in the hangar, though Clint’s gone outside to collect Thor.

 

“Absolutely not,” Steve says when they step out of the elevator into the hangar.

 

“Try and stop me, punk,” Bucky says, heading past him.

 

“Buck—”

 

“Steve, I’m not sitting this one out, not with a  _Hydra_  base active,” Bucky says, stepping away from the hand Steve reaches out, “I’m good.  Arm’s good, head is good, there’s nothing— _Jesus_.”

 

“No fricking way,” Clint says, nearly beaming.

 

“Yes, fine,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head, “Your stealth arrows work.”

 

“We snuck up on the Winter Soldier,” he says, jostling Thor. 

 

Friends,” Thor says as he stops by them, “I was summoned?”

 

“Thought you could use a little adventure,” Tony says, tapping his knuckles against Thor’s massive forearm, “Also, we missed you.”

 

“Yuletide is almost upon us,” Thor reminds them, and Nat’s laugh echoes out from the quinjet.

 

“Don’t worry, party hard, we’ll get you back before Christmas,” she says when they follow her in.

 

“Where’s Vision?” Wanda asks as she takes a seat.

 

“Sabbatical,” Tony says, and then promptly ignores any and all questions regarding the topic.

 

They’re barely in the air when Steve says, “It’ll be six hours before we can get there, so try to get some sleep.”

 

It’s easier said than done, but the team is top notch at sleeping anywhere and everywhere when necessary, so they start to drop off fairly quickly.  Steve tries to relieve Clint of copilot duty, who swears up and down that there’s no chance of him sleeping anyway, so Steve gives up.

 

When he turns back to the rest of his team, he finds Bruce curled up on one of the seats, eyes closed, and though he can’t tell if he’s actually sleeping or not, he hopes the former is true.  From behind him, he can hear Clint arguing with Nat about getting some shut eye while he monitors their flight plan, and smiles when she concedes.  Thor is sitting with his head tipped back, hand busy stroking through Wanda’s hair where her head is resting against his thigh.  Sam is sitting next to Bucky, quietly discussing what they’re approaching.  Bucky, while participating in the conversation, has his human fingers wrapped around Tony’s ankle, almost like he’s holding onto him, and Steve doesn’t quite know what to make of this.  Tony is on his side, facing the seat, and though Steve usually mistakes this for sleep, he can see Tony’s mouth moving, probably on a separate line from the rest of them.

 

He takes a seat next to Sam, who offers him a tired smile, having apparently finished his conversation with Bucky.  He leaves them to find a place to curl up, and Steve watches Bucky lean over to whisper something to Tony, who kicks him lightly in response.  To his amazement, Bucky is smiling when he straightens, and Steve quickly turns his gaze away.

 

The first four hours pass in silence, and then Tony sits up, says, “Okay, check this out,” and Steve starts to turn, thinking he means all of them when he notices the low pitch of his voice and how close he’s sitting to Bucky.  He gets up without meaning to and goes to check on Nat and Clint.

 

“What is that?” Bucky asks even though he knows.

 

“Jay found it while he was combing through the cameras.  I needed to give him something to do, or he’d start complaining.  Friday was—”

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Bucky says.

 

He’s staring at one of the chairs they used on him. “Say the word, and I’ll side with Steve to keep you on this jet.”

 

Bucky keeps staring at it, bites his lip when he can feel it all stirring.  “What if I become him?” he asks, almost too soft for Tony to hear.

 

Tony looks up, finds that Steve’s got his back to them, that Thor and Wanda are both asleep, and that Bruce is busy reading.  He reaches for Bucky’s hand, winding their fingers together, thumb tracing slow circles across the back of his hand.  Bucky barely reacts.  Tony frowns, shuts down his tablet, and presses a careful kiss against his jaw.

 

“James,” he says firmly.

 

Bucky exhales.  “I’m here,” he says.

 

“Sure you can do this?”

 

Bucky nods quickly.  “I can.  Just—” he pauses, finally lifting his head to look at Tony, “Stay close?”

 

“Of course,” Tony says, and almost doesn’t break it.

 

It’s absolute  _mayhem_  when they arrive. It’s not, at first, and Tony chalks that up to why it is, later.  They get within five miles in stealth mode before Tony leaves, keeping above cloud level until Friday informs him he’s just above the base, and then he loops a careful path down. It’s abandoned.

 

“Friday, thermal check,” he says, brows drawing together.

 

“Inconclusive,” she says almost immediately, “I am encountering some type of force field.”

 

“These are not the droids you are looking for,” Tony says before he performs a quick dive, lands outside the front door, and prepares for anything. Nothing happens. “Cap,” Tony says, his frustration clear, “I could use a second pair of eyes.”

 

“On my way,” Thor says.  Approximately forty seconds later, nothing has happened, and Thor comes out of the trees.  “What’s going on?” he asks, his expression similar to Tony’s.

 

“Trap?” Tony guesses, “They probably—mother _fucker_.”

 

“Sir, I can’t stop it!” Friday shouts.

 

The weight of the suit is suddenly impossible to bear, and Tony staggers to one knee, gauntlet coming up to press against his metal knee.  “Tony?” Thor says, and fucking taps the faceplate.

 

“Hang on,” Tony says, though the air in here feels dead already, and he has difficulty swallowing, “Fri, can you give me anything?”

 

“I cannot access the Iron Man suit at all.”

 

“Mother _fucker_!” Tony yells.

 

“What’s going on?” Cap comes through.

 

“Iron Man’s down,” Thor says, “We were hit with some kind of electromagnetic pulse, I believe.”

 

“Called an EMP, you dope,” Tony mutters.

 

“No way,” Nat says, “The suit’s protected against that.”

 

“I  _know_ ,” Tony says, coming back over comms, “Friday can’t access the suit.  I’m— _stuck_ , for lack of a better word.  Well, this blows.”

 

“Sir,” Friday says quietly, and her tone lets Tony know she’s talking to the rest of the team, as well, “I can remotely open up the suit and get you out, but it appears all systems have been tampered with.  Back home, as well, sir.”

 

“Mother—Friday, get Jarvis out of there now.”

 

“Jarvis?” three different voices echo through his helmet.

 

“Yeah, we’ll explain later.  Right now,  _shit_.”

 

“What?” Thor and Steve say at the same time.  Thor turns, and Tony tries to shake his head, but his temple presses against cool metal, and his mouth tastes like seawater.

 

“Is someone approaching?” Steve asks, “We’re coming in.”

 

“The base looks empty,” Thor says, “I don’t see any recent activity, no tracks in the snow, there’s—”

 

Tony looks up when he pauses, and he’s about to give the final command to Friday when Thor doesn’t proceed, but then Thor’s pivoting, dropping to a knee, and hauling Tony over his shoulder.  Tony sees it as soon as he’s in the air.

 

“Run!” he says, and Thor takes off  _flying_.

 

The hammer careens through the air, the air splits with a crack of thunder, and a heat-seeking missile shatters a crater into the space they’d been standing six seconds ago.  The resulting blast throws Thor off kilter, who nearly drops Tony, who can do nothing but close his eyes and  _hope_.

 

A piece of his house slams into his chest, and he stops trying to hold it in.

 

“Nope,” Bucky’s voice crashes through the ringing in his hears, “Breathe, asshole.”  He does his level best, and he very nearly succeeds until Thor’s dropping them where the jet has landed, and he sags to the ground, rolling with the impact until he’s on his back.  Instantly, he can see Bucky standing over him.  “Open up,” he demands.

 

“Friday, get me out of here.”

 

“Sir, I appear to be malfunctioning,” she says, her voice crackling.

 

“Friday!” And then the suit goes dark.  He can survive in the suit for approximately two hours without power.  His options, then, it seems, are to dismantle the suit the old-fashioned way or die.  He starts to tell them as much when a little blue light desperately tries to flicker to life.

 

There’s so much commotion above him, Bucky shouting his name and then at Steve to  _watch out!_ , but Tony has trouble focusing on any of it as he watches that blue light.  It finally catches fire, dances across his line of vision, and transforms into an old, but very familiar display.

 

“Jarvis?” he says.

 

“Remote ejection underway, sir.  I should probably inform you that the Avengers are under attack, however.”

 

“Distance from the jet?”

 

“300 yards, sir.”

 

“Get me out of here.”

 

It happens quickly, and in a blur.  The suit peels back, the commotion clarifies into gunfire and battle, and Tony leaps out of the suit, sprinting for the jet.  He can hear these sharp, ricocheting shots that give him every confidence that he’ll make it to the jet in time, and then the bay door is dropping open to reveal Bruce on the other side, watching him anxiously.

 

As soon as Tony has one foot on the door, it starts to close, faster than normal, so he tucks and rolls, somehow landing on his feet once inside.

 

“Well,” Bruce says.

 

Tony huffs an empty laugh at this before he strides forward, kneels, and swipes a hand over the floor.  Jarvis works slowly, still stretching his legs, but he manages to sneak his way into the jet and start overriding Friday’s controls.  Fifteen seconds later, a screen materializes under Tony’s fingers, and he pulls it with him as he straightens.  He duplicates it, tosses it Bruce’s way, and says, “Ready?”

 

As they dive in, working with Jarvis to get into the base’s system, the battle rages on.  Bucky can see, from his vantage point, when the tide shifts, and then it’s only a matter of minutes before they’re dispatching of the last soldiers.

 

“Buck?” Steve asks as he pauses to catch his breath.

 

Bucky sights the land around them, finds it empty, and says, “Clear.”

 

They take a moment to regroup, checking in with Tony and Bruce, who are inside and slowly dismantling their firewalls.  “How long?” Steve asks, already reaching to settle his shield on his back.

 

“By the time you get up there, sunshine, you’ll be in,” Tony says, not looking away, “Friday’s out of commission right now, so Jarvis will be taking lead.  Later,” he adds at Steve’s look, “Go.”

 

“Let us know if you need any assistance,” Bruce says, and that’s that.

 

Bucky’s on edge from the second they walk inside.  He remembers it fiercely, and it starts to crawl its way under his skin as he adjusts his grip on his gun.  “You good?” Steve asks once, and Bucky’s responding glare is enough that he doesn’t ask again.

 

Most of their journey through the base is uneventful, and then they reach the room with the chair.  Bucky starts to approach, and stops immediately at the door.  Something awful and cold is stirring inside of him, and while he knows he can swallow it back down, he just—doesn’t want to.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Bucky says, stepping back, “I’m not going in there.”

 

“Of course,” Steve says, nodding and walking past him.

 

He waits until everyone’s gone inside before he says, “Jarvis.”  He knows that Jarvis is still young, still learning, but he’s still taken aback by how long it takes, and then, when he doesn’t respond at all, something like dread drops into his stomach.

 

“Steve,” he says, turning and stepping into the room. The chair calls to him.

 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, stopping and looking over.

 

“Jarvis isn’t responding.”

 

“Stark?” Thor says quickly, hand lifting to his ear, “Come in.”

 

Silence reigns, and the chair is whispering.

 

“Comms must be down,” Nat says.

 

“I can hear you,” Clint says to prove her wrong.  He’s near the ceiling, one leg hanging off of a support beam, “Comms are fine.”

 

“Maybe it’s this room?” Wanda suggests, her gaze drawn toward the chair, “It sure feels spooky in here.”

 

“One of us should go back,” Bucky says, stepping further inside, trying desperately not to look at it.

 

The door behind him slams shut, everyone whips around, and a too-familiar voice says, “Welcome home, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

——

 

Tony wakes up first, and he’s mildly concerned about that until Ross snorts at him and says, “Think I’d use a regular tranquilizer on that monster?”

 

It takes him until then to realize that they’ve been kidnapped.

 

“Wait, what?” Tony says, blinking rapidly, looking between Bruce, unconscious, and General Ross, scowling, “What’s going on?”

 

“You’re a little slow on the uptake today, Stark,” Ross growls at him, “Look around.”

 

Tony does so, and for the first time, realizes two important things that he’s even more concerned that he didn’t notice at first—one, they’re not in Kansas anymore, or the quinjet; and two, his wrists are zip-tied together.  He almost rolls his eyes at that—really, he learned how to get out of zip ties when he was eight—but lets them think he’s been subdued for now.

 

“The sedative should be wearing off now,” Ross says to him, “But we’ll attribute it to why you’re less than we expected.”

 

“Less than  _we_ —who the fuck are you working with?” Tony says, fear starting to trudge its way under his skin.

 

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Ross says, and Tony’s head jerks to the side, blue eyes fixed on the bay door.  He hears Obie’s voice even though he knows it’s Ross talking.  “Did you really think your little friend managed to weed out all of Hydra?  A minor setback, yes, but then, when I was appointed commander of the Avengers.  Oh, what a pleasant surprise.  I’m shocked, truly, that you bent so easily.  Then again, like father like son.”

 

Tony forces himself to remain still even as he tries to unravel this.  He can’t fathom Howard working for Hydra, after all he did to help Steve. Beside him, Bruce stirs.

 

“How long until we’ve reached the base?” Ross barks at the pilot.

 

“Performing landing procedures now, sir.”

 

By the time they’ve landed, Bruce is desperately trying to blink open his eyes.    “Move out,” Ross says, striding past them.

 

“Come on,” Tony says against Bruce’s ear, “Up you go.”  He pulls Bruce to his feet, buckling under his dead weight a little until he readjusts his grip, which is made all the more difficult by the zip ties.  “Okay, fuck this,” he snarls before setting Bruce back down, positioning his elbows correctly, and snapping the ties off his wrists.  Bruce is starting to rouse in earnest when they hit the sharp wind outside, and Tony winces at the snow under his feet as he helps Bruce toward the base.  He’s only in the under suit, and thus, he’s essentially exposed.

 

“Where we?” Bruce mumbles as they pause outside the front door.

 

“Don’t panic,” Tony says, “I need you right now, not you.”

 

“Don’t make sense,” Bruce says tiredly, head lolling against Tony’s shoulder.

 

“It makes perfect sense, shush.”

 

Ross orders them inside ahead of him, so Tony follows at the heels of a guard.  He can feel Bruce starting to focus as they follow a winding path, and then, his hand is wrapping around Tony’s elbow, though he’s still slumped against him, and he whispers, “Where are we?”

 

“Good, you’re awake,” Tony says, keeping his voice low, “Ross is Hydra.  They snatched us from the quinjet, took us to a separate base.  They—” Tony breaks off as they enter a room where a familiar chair is resting.  It’s familiar not only because he’s seen a dozen pictures of ones like it, though, for this one holds something else, something that pulls at him.

 

“Nice handiwork, yes?” Ross says, circling it and them, “Notice anything, Tony?”

 

Something awful settles in his stomach.  “My father built that,” he says, “How?  Why?”

 

“Both excellent questions,” Ross says, stopping at the side of the chair, “He did work quite hard in favor of the little guy, helped make Erskine’s dream a reality, and then it was all for naught.  He lost both of them.  Ah,” he adds at Tony’s furrowed brow, “Yes.  Your father knew very well where the serum was going when it was being replicated.  He is, in part, responsible for the Winter Soldier, who should, ah—well, let’s just say he’s finally come home.”  Ross pats the arm of the chair, and Tony drops his guard, letting the fear swell up for a moment before Bruce squeezes his elbow again, and then he closes up, puts up every wall he learned to create for his father.

 

He wants to say that Howard would have never condoned this, but he’s not so sure.  “You knew him, then?” he asks instead.

 

“Of course I knew Howard Stark,” Ross says like it’s an idiotic question, “But yes, I knew this side of him, as well.  We worked closely on a new future, on—preserving our common goal.”  His gaze shifts to Bruce, and it starts to dawn on him.

 

“You were going to do the same thing to Bruce?” Tony asks.

 

Somehow, Bruce manages to keep up the act, leaning against Tony and acting as though the tranquilizer is still affecting him, but Tony feels him bristle, tightening all over.

 

“Are,” Ross corrects, and three things happen at once.

 

Ross’s gaze shifts past Tony, nodding once.  Several guards start coming forward, weapons trained on Bruce as Ross steps away from the chair.

 

The hand on Tony’s elbow shifts, but it’s enough that he can feel Bruce’s bones cracking through his fingers.

 

“Sir,” Jarvis says into his ear.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, “I can work with this.”

 

Tony lets go of Bruce, who drops to a knee.  Ross starts shouting incoherently.  Tony stops, drops, and rolls.  He catches one of the guards unawares, knocking his feet out from under him, wrestles his weapon out of his hand, and picks two clean shots off before one of Bruce’s fists slams against the ground.  A bullet catches Bruce in the ribs a full second before he’s gone, and Tony swears, picking off the rest of the guards before he turns his gun to Ross.

 

Hulk roars in the silence that follows.

 

Tony swears when he hears footsteps pounding down the hall toward them and runs to seal off their exit.  Hulk has got Ross plenty occupied, so he hurries around the perimeter of the room, barring any other doors he finds, until he’s back with that damning chair.

 

“Bruce,” he says, and Hulk backs down, though he’s breathing hard.  He opens his fingers and shows Tony a crumpled gun.  “Aw shucks, for me?” Tony says, tapping his knuckles against one of Bruce’s fingers before turning his attention back to Ross.  “I have two questions,” he says.

 

“Nothing you say will matter, Stark,” Ross says easily, “Your friends will be dead shortly, and Barnes will die killing them.”

 

“Was Howard involved beyond the chair?” Tony asks, ignoring him.

 

“He manufactured it, yes,” Ross says.

 

“Not the answer to my question,” Tony says, stepping closer, adjusting his aim.

 

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Ross says.

 

“If you answer my questions, maybe not.  Was Howard involved beyond the chair?”

 

“He performed several wipes, yes, and he assisted with the arm on occasion.”

 

Tony swallows bile.  “How are you going to trigger him?”

 

“Barnes?”  Tony’s eyes narrow.  “Just because you burned a red book, Tony, doesn’t mean the information isn’t stored elsewhere.  Is this really the best your genius brain can come up with?”

 

“So you’re going to use the words?” Tony asks, grip tightening around the gun.

 

“Nothing else is as effective,” Ross says.  Tony grins, steps back, and lowers the gun.  “That’s a good boy,” Ross says, relaxing.

 

“All yours, Bruce,” Tony says, and turns to put his attention on the chair, beginning to dismantle it as Ross’s terror leaks out through a scream that breaks in half.  Tony glances over once to find him lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, skull caved in on one side.  “Don’t be mad at me when you’re Bruce again,” Tony says, turning back to the chair, “Though I’d appreciate it if that wasn’t soon.  I’ll need your help to get out.”

 

“Bruce is happy Ross is dead.”

 

“Hey, me too,” Tony says jovially, “Just don’t tell Cap, he’ll get his panties in a twist.  Ah, there we go.”  He rips a wire from the innards of the chair, drops onto his ass, and gets to work.

 

Once, someone nearly gets inside, but Hulk is stalking the perimeter and smashes their head against the wall.  Tony winces at the crunch that reverberates through the room and keeps working.

 

“Okay, game plan,” Tony says thirteen minutes later, “Think you can bust us out of here?”  Hulk grins at him.  “There is so much Bruce in that grin, I freaking love it,” Tony says excitedly, “Alright, I’m setting a long line, give us enough time.”

 

“Bomb?” Hulk asks, pointing to the thing in Tony’s hand.

 

“The very best,” Tony says before he sets it down in the center of the chair and begins reeling a line away from it.  When he’s finished, he looks to Hulk, who nods, so he pats Ross down until he finds a lighter, sets the line on fire, and starts running.

 

Hulk scoops him up by the door, intending to hold onto him with one hand, but Tony keeps going, hauling himself up until he can loop his legs around his neck, ankles hooked together.  “Yippie-kay-yay!” the word ends in a yell as Hulk kicks the doors open and starts running.

 

Tony makes himself as small as possible, curled close to Hulk, and though this is probably the worst plan he’s ever had in his life, they make it out alive.

 

“Probably six seconds!” Tony yells when they burst out into the snow.

 

“Hold on,” Hulk rumbles, and Tony just starts swearing, fluidly and quickly, as Hulk crouches and then jumps, launching them into the air.

 

“Holy  _shit_!” Tony shrieks into the wind, arms wrapped tight around Hulk’s head.

 

When they land, three miles away, Tony crashes to the ground, sucking in air and trying to make his limbs work.  “Tony!” a voice yells that sounds suspiciously like Bruce before he’s being enveloped in darkness.

 

——

 

It takes them all of ninety seconds in total to get out of this mess.

 

Zola’s voice echoes proudly over the speakers, reciting words to bend Bucky into compliance, whose top lip lifts in a snarl before he tosses Steve his gun and stalks over to the chair.  He feels Nat take aim,  _at him_ , but he doesn’t stop until he’s reached the chair, and he tears the headpiece clean off.

 

When Zola seems to realize his words are not working, a door opens behind them, and one of his fucking handlers greets him with a wicked grin.  Bucky plucks the knife from his thigh and swings it quickly and accurately through the air.  The handler drops, steel wedged between his eyes, as Clint takes out the one on the left and Wanda whips red energy at the one on the right.

 

“Haven’t we done this enough times?” Nat says, sounding bored.

 

“Hydra is still alive and well,” Bucky says, his voice cracking around the edges and threatening to shatter apart, cut Nat to the bone.

 

“Search the base,” Steve agrees, “Split up.”

 

They detain the two men, and then break off into teams of two, Nat and Clint taking a door on the right while Thor smashes open a jammed lock on the left, leaving Steve, Bucky, and Sam in the room.

 

“I’m staying here,” Bucky says, glaring at the chair.

 

“Cap, I’ll hang back,” Sam offers, frowning at Bucky.  Steve nods once, looks like he’s about to say something, and then sighs, turning and jogging out.  “Hey,” Sam says, “You good?”

 

“Help me dismantle this piece of shit,” Bucky says before he snaps one of the armrests off.

 

Sam exhales loudly, but comes over to help.  Once they’ve finished breaking the chair into pieces, and rather loudly ripping it out of the floor, they split up to investigate the rest of the room.  They’re about to come up empty-handed when Sam steps back in toward the chair, and the floor shifts beneath him.

 

“Uh,” he says, looking around as the floor starts to open up around him, pieces falling away until there’s nothing but a spiral staircase left.  “Yes, secret room,” he says, and immediately starts descending.

 

Bucky is quick to follow, drawing his attention solely to Sam’s chattering voice as they go down.  “You know, if we’re about to walk into an ambush, I’m going to be seriously pissed off.  This whole day has just been  _weird_ , and well, would you look at that, no ambush.”

 

They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, which has opened up into a vast room made small by the sheer  _stuff_  inside.  “These are Skrull weapons,” Sam says, picking up an alien-looking gun, “You know, I thought that strange, Friday confirms their origins, and then we end up fighting Hydra goons.  I wonder if—Bucky?”

 

“I remember him,” Bucky says.  Sam comes over, slowing as he approaches and sees the pictures on the wall.  “And—her,” he says slowly, “Steve had the biggest crush on her.”

 

“Yeah, that’s Peggy,” Sam says, confusion writ across his expression until it occurs to him, “Wait—is Steve the only one you remember?”  Bucky shrugs one shoulder, not looking over.  “Man, I’m sorry,” Sam says, “I thought—okay, so that’s Peggy Carter.  She was one of the founding members of SHIELD.  The other one is Howard Stark.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky says.

 

“Yeah,  _the_  Howard Stark.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, turning toward Sam abruptly, “That’s not—I know who he is, I know that I killed him, but that—how old is he?”

 

“In that picture?” Sam says, frowning at it, “Probably in his 30s.  Why?”

 

“He was one of my handlers.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I don’t—” Bucky stops, shaking his head as he looks away.  He had looked so different when he was older, so strange, but now—Bucky remembers it as though he’d been shoved into that chair yesterday, as though he’s being haunted by the same ghost as Tony.

 

There’s movement above them, and as Sam looks up, something bright flashes to Bucky’s right.  “Sam!” he shouts even as he sees it, “It’s a trap!  We have to get out!”

 

Sam starts running without thinking, and Bucky follows, but it’s not enough, it’s not  _enough_ , and the literal six seconds they have before detonation only get them to the bottom of the stairs.  Bucky grabs Sam, hauls him close, and throws them at the nearest corner as the building rocks around them.

 

He’s either lucky or damned, but he remains conscious as the base caves in.  He feels Sam’s body goes limp, and he just tightens his hold around him, curling up even smaller, letting his body take the force of the blow until, finally, it stops.  The dust settles, and the base stops creaking.  Bucky’s taking short, concentrated breaths, trying to preserve their oxygen, and he doesn’t move until a full five minutes have gone by without noise.

 

He starts to shift one shoulder, pushing against the wall of concrete behind him, and their space gets significantly smaller as the base shifts around him and pushes them deeper in.  “Shit,” he exhales, closing his eyes.

 

He’s never been afraid of small spaces.  As a sniper, he’s dug himself into worse situations than this and gotten out, but then, he’d always had a planned exit.  Now, he has another body to be wary of, and Bucky thinks getting out is going to end up in one of them dead.

 

“Alright,” he says, “Gonna need you to not be dead.”  He carefully shifts his hand up until he can press two fingers below Sam’s jaw, and he exhales relief when he finds a pulse.  There’s a nasty gash on his head, and one of his shoulders isn’t quite right, but he’s alive, and that’s all that matters.  He takes stock of his own body now that he’s here and unmoving, finds that his left side aches when he tries to inhale, probably either bruised and cracked ribs, two of his fingers are broken, and his right ankle is caught in the debris.

 

If he moves slowly, Bucky finds, he can get his earbud out without too much shifting of the concaved base around them, and then it’s just a matter of wedging the mesh off and playing with the wires.  Two minutes later—and several shorter breaths later—Bucky grins when he hears static emitting from the earbud.  He keeps finagling until, finally, he gets a signal.

 

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice filters through, laced heavily with fear, “Sam?  Can you hear me?”

 

“Roger that,” Bucky says, and there’s a soft, crackly cheer on the other line from a few of the other Avengers.

 

“Where are you?” Steve asks.

 

“We found a hidden basement filled with Skrull weaponry.  It was rigged to blow.  Sam’s unconscious, but alive.  I can’t move.”

 

“Hang tight.  Jarvis is coming back online right now, and he’ll do a thermal scan.”

 

“ _Meanwhile_ ,” Tony’s snark is in full form, “Bruce and I were busy being kidnapped.”

 

“What?  Are you okay?” Bucky asks without thinking.

 

“Aw shucks, didn’t think you cared,” Tony says, “Well, we traveled by Hulk, so that was terrifying.”

 

“Hulk hurt,” Hulk reports.

 

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Tony says.

 

“Enough,” Steve says, “Save your oxygen, Buck.”

 

And so, he waits in silence.  Eventually, the crumbled base starts to move above him, and it almost does more harm than good, but Bucky just covers as much of Sam as he can, and though his ribs are definitely shifting from bruised to broken, they’re okay.  He can feel the second the air starts to get clearer, he inhales deeply, and then it’s only a matter of minutes before Steve is pulling them free.

 

“Injury report,” Steve says as Bucky is helping him get Sam out.

 

“Sam’s got a dislocated shoulder and head wound,” Bucky says before taking Steve’s hand, “Shit, hang on.”  His foot is still wedged, and he frowns, still holding Steve’s hand as he looks down and tries to tug it free.  “Alright,” he says, looking back at Steve, “Move fast.”

 

Steve nods, adjusting his grip, and he starts hauling him out the second Bucky’s leg shoots free, and a massive block of cement crashes down.  They both tumble into the debris, and Bucky groans into Steve’s side.

 

“Injury—”

 

“Possible broken ribs, two broken fingers, and hopefully just a sprain,” Bucky says before he can finish, using Steve to push himself upright.  Steve helps him over to the others, where Nat is quickly checking over Sam.

 

“You look like shit,” Clint informs him, so Bucky flicks his ear.

 

“No, stop,” Tony says, pulling Bucky’s attention to him where he’s twisting away from Hulk, “Stay.  We need you right now, so chill out.”

 

Tony starts for him, and Bucky smiles, stepping away from Steve.  “Thank you,” he says, turning his smile to Steve, who just nods, though he looks uncertain.  Bucky ignores it, though he thinks he’s going to have to tell him soon because then Tony’s pulling him into a hug that turns heads.

 

“Don’t do that to me,” he mutters, low enough that only Bucky hears him.

 

He releases him sooner than Bucky’s ready for, but he looks so worried that Bucky taps his arm with a light punch and says, “I’m fine.”

 

Tony  _guffaws_.  “Fine my ass,” Tony says, then seems to realize what he said, and grins like a fool.

 

“Come on,” Steve says loudly, “Let’s get out of here.  Quinjet still operational?”

 

“Yeah, they transferred us to a different jet,” Tony says, his nose scrunching up, “Last time I let someone tranquilize me.”

 

“They used a  _tranquilizer_ on you?” Nat says through a smirk, “They thought you were that dangerous?”

 

“I will fuck you up,” Tony says, making a face at her.

 

“I’d like to see you try,” she says before motioning for Clint to help her.

 

Together, they all make their way back to the quinjet, which proves difficult, as Bruce is still Hulk, Sam is still unconscious, and both Bucky and Tony are sporting a limp.  The worst part, however, proves to be at hour two of their ride home when Steve says, “Okay, I know we’re at half mast, but let’s do a quick debrief.”

 

“Aw,  _Steve_ ,” all of them groan.

 

“Come on,” Steve says, standing up and tapping Nat’s chair, “Autopilot, let’s go.”  He waits until they’re all gathered around, Sam laid out and strapped down, and Bruce wrapped up in a blanket, shivering.  He’s in severe pain from the burns on his back, but Tony dug up some morphine, and though he’s groggy, he’s awake.  “Round robin,” Steve says, looking to Nat first.

 

“Mostly recon work,” Nat says, “We found a filing cabinet full of useless information, as well as a tech room that we nicked some files from.  Otherwise, uneventful.”

 

Bucky looks away when Steve turns to him.  “Sam and I found a hidden basement below the room with the chair.  There was a ton of Skrull weaponry hidden down there, as well as a picture of Peggy and Howard.  It, uh—it triggered a few memories.”

 

“Really?” Steve says, sounding hopeful.

 

Bucky looks up and over at Tony.  “Howard was one of my handlers,” he says.

 

He waits for the air to go cold, waits for Tony’s expression to drop away and face to wall up, but instead, Tony  _nods_.  “Yeah,” he says, “Ross confirmed as much.  Oh yeah, hey guys, Ross is part of Hydra, but he’s dead because Hulk hates him, so that’s that.  They brought us to this other base, which I blew up,  _sorry_.”

 

“Wait,” Steve says, “Howard  _Stark_  was one of your handlers, and Ross knew this?”

 

Tony sighs just to annoy Steve, who glares at him.  “My father built the chair in the base we were in.  His work is recognizable anywhere.  Turns out, Howard was even worse than previously imagined, and knew the serum was being replicated.  He also put Bucky under a few times, as well as fixed his arm on occasion.  He had brought us to the base to try to—I don’t know, make Bruce into an asshole?”

 

“Poor choice of words,” Bruce mumbles, leaning into him, “He wanted to concentrate the Hulk’s rage and use it as an intelligent weapon.  Or, he was going to try to.”

 

“So he killed Ross while I built a bomb.”  Bruce frowns.  Tony takes one of his hands, kissing his knuckles, and Bruce closes his eyes.  “And you, Cap?” Tony prompts.

 

“After I left the room with the chair, not much.  The base was fairly deserted.  I’m concerned about where all of the Skrulls went, though.”

 

“We may have some clues,” Thor says, glancing at Wanda, “We scouted the surrounding area after nothing turned up in the base, and we found several tracks in the snow behind the base.”

 

Tony taps his chest and says, “Friday’s looking into it right now.”

 

“That,” Steve says, “ _Jarvis_?”

 

“Right,” Tony says, “So he’s been rebuilding himself, and I’ve been encouraging him.  He’s not anywhere near where Friday is, and really, he’ll be tired for weeks after this little excursion, but he’s there, just not—war ready.  I don’t know if he ever will be.”

 

“ _He’s_  rebuilding himself?  Tony.”

 

“No, not like that,” Tony says, “This isn’t Ultron.  This is what Jarvis always was.  Do you think I built him entirely myself?  He’s a self-improving AI.  Ultron was—a little more.  The original base code Jarvis was built on would never allow that kind of leap.  Regardless,” Tony says, his voice taking on an angrier edge because he can see this drifting off into a more dangerous conversation, “You should expect Friday, not him.”

 

Steve looks like he wants to push it, but he backs off after a moment, nodding.  “Okay,” he says, turning his attention back to the team at large, “Get some rest, we still have a few hours before we get home.”

 

Home is not quite what it turns out to be.

 

All but Nat and Clint end up in medical, and though Tony and Steve are the first of them released, it feels like an eternity before they’re stepping out into the hall.  “Tony,” Steve begins.

 

“Cap, listen, you’re great, but I’m at my limit with human interaction,” Tony says, walking away from him quickly, “I need—four hours, at minimum.”

 

“Tony,” Steve sighs.

 

“Really, it’s not you,” Tony says, jabbing the button for the elevator, “My patience is in the negatives, and I just need to recharge for a bit.”

  
Before Steve can say anymore, he steps into the elevator.  He takes it down into the lab, where everyone’s asleep, the lights dark and the typical lullaby of noise quiet.  He strips out of his suit as soon as he’s inside, bare feet slapping against the ground as he pads naked through the lab.  After a quick shower and more mouthwash than is probably necessary, Tony digs out a pair of fitted black pants, a long sleeve Skynyrd shirt, and a red flannel to hang open over it.

 

When he drops into his chair, legs curling up beneath him, he lets himself sit in the silence for a moment, just breathing.  “Yeah, this sucks,” he says after a few seconds, tapping at his desk and spreading a hand until a keyboard pops up.  “Wake up, daddy’s home,” he says, and the lab flickers to life.

 

He can hear Dum-E stretching in the corner as U nearly trips over himself zooming toward him to say hello.  Butterfingers crashes into something and sets off an alarm, and Tony grins, looking up toward the ceiling.  “Good evening, sir,” Jarvis says, “How are you?”

 

“Exhausted,” Tony says, closing his eyes.

 

“I’ll have Dum-E prepare something warm,” Friday says, already redirecting the bots to different tasks. Tony just smiles and gets to work.

 

Right on the nose, four hours later, the door opens, and Tony starts to whine loudly at Steve for being so punctual and obnoxious, and trips right over his words when it’s Bucky that’s coming in.  He’s dressed in a pair of nicely fitting jeans, socks with little arrows on them,  _Jesus Christ_ , and a loose sweatshirt with ARMY stamped across it.

 

“Did Clint get you those socks?” Tony teases.

 

“He’s very proud of himself,” Bucky says, stopping at his desk and lifting a bag of takeaway.

 

“What is it?” Tony says, not moving.

 

“Sushi.”

 

“You’re officially my favorite.”  Tony spins toward him, hopping off his chair and coming over for a quick kiss before he steals the bag and makes for the futon.

 

“I want to tell Steve,” Bucky says when they’ve settled.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, snapping apart his chopsticks, “Any particular reason?”

 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder and then scoots closer so that his knee is stacked on top of Tony’s.  “It doesn’t feel right,” Bucky says, “I’m—happy with you, and I don’t want to feel like I have to hide that from him.  He’s my best friend.”

 

“He’s annoying,” Tony reminds him.

 

“I know,” Bucky says, “But so are you.”

 

“Well,  _yeah_.  That’s half the charm.”

 

“I actually don’t know if you understand what being charming entails.”

 

“I’ll kill you,” Tony threatens.

 

“You won’t, though,” Bucky says, and drops a feather light kiss on his jaw.

 

Tony just hides his stupid grin in a large roll of sushi.  They eat, chatting about nothing of import, though it’s right there, waiting on the edge of their words, until finally, Tony says, “Alright, stop being like that.  We’re over it.”

 

“Tony, he—”

 

“He was my father, and he was an asshole,” Tony says, “He never told me he loved me, never once said he was proud of me.  He gave me no reason to love him, and I didn’t.  Yes, I was upset when he died.  He was my  _father_.  Yes, I hated the  _sight_ of you when I found out you were responsible, but really, you weren’t.  It wasn’t your fault, and I know that, and I’m—I’m sorry, Bucky.”  Tony puts down his chopsticks before he dumps their containers in the bag and turns.  He draws his knees up, leaning against the back of the futon as he continues, “I’m sorry for what he did to you, for what unimaginable torture you endured at  _his_  hand.  Hey,” he adds when Bucky looks down at his lap, “Stop beating yourself up for something you had no way of preventing.”

 

“How did I not remember him?” Bucky asks, still not looking up, “The second I saw Steve on that bridge, something started to shift.  How could I not remember Howard?”

 

“Please,” Tony scoffs, “You grew up with Steve.  You knew Howard for a couple years, and even if you were all buddy buddy, it makes no sense that he would have been able to trigger anything in you.  He didn’t even look the same.”

 

“He didn’t,” Bucky agrees, finally looking up at him, “You’re aging well, though.”

 

“Oh,  _fuck you_!” Tony shouts, and lunges at him.

 

Bucky laughs as they tip over, Tony punching him  _hard_ in the shoulder.  “Pretty smooth for an old man,” Bucky says as Tony’s knees drop on either side of him.

 

“Old?” Tony says, his voice going a little shrill.

 

“Shut up,” Bucky says, still grinning as he reaches up for him.

 

Tony meets him halfway, kisses him long and slow, and though Bucky thinks this could turn into something else, it’s nothing more than them right now, lying together and learning the shape of each other’s mouths.  One of Tony’s hands slips down and under his hoodie, presses warm, callused fingers against his cracked ribs.  Bucky groans into his mouth, and Tony soothes him with a quick, sharp bite to his lower lip.

 

“I literally have bruises everywhere,” Tony says, and Bucky smiles, nodding.

 

“Wanna snuggle?” Bucky asks.

 

Tony laughs, “Snuggle, really?”

 

“Square deal,” Bucky says, lifting up to kiss the corner of Tony’s mouth, “I’ll make tea, you pick out a show.”

 

“ _Peaky Blinders_ ,” Tony says, “Relatively new,  _but_  Clint’s been raving about it, and usually he has wretched taste in everything, but it sounds pretty badass.”

 

“You haven’t seen it, either?”

 

“Nope.  We can fall asleep to it together,” Tony says, and closes the distance between them again.  He lets himself get lost in Bucky, in the careful hands that drift over his back and the steady presence of his quick heart beneath him.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”  It’s probably why he doesn’t hear Friday announce Steve’s arrival.

 

Tony looks up, eyes wide and mouth wet, and finds Steve standing in front of them, something like fury infecting his features.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says as he tips his head back and finds him.  He starts to pat Tony’s thigh, indicating he should get off, though when he looks back at Tony, it’s without nervousness or alarm, and so Tony doesn’t hasten away from him like he should be ashamed. It’s probably why Steve grabs him by one shoulder, jerks him away from Bucky, and clocks him in the jaw.

 

“Steve!” Bucky shouts, scrambling off the futon as Tony crashes into a nearby table, lifting a hand to press at his jaw in shock.

 

“Holy shit,” Tony says, working his jaw, “What the fuck, Steve?”

 

“What the  _fuck_?” Steve echoes, his voice pitching up in volume, “Are you two seriously doing this right now?”

 

“Steve, we were going to tell you,” Bucky says.

 

“When?” Steve roars, rounding on him.

 

“Tomorrow, probably,” Bucky says, “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I knew this was worse, keeping it from you.  We just talked about telling you.”

 

“Telling  _me_?  What about the rest of the team?”

 

“Please, they already know,” Tony mutters, straightening away from the table.

 

“What?” Steve says, turning back to Tony, “How?”

 

“It’s been pretty obvious,  _Steven_.”

 

Steve hits him again.  Really, Tony should have expected it, but he still smacks into the table again when Steve’s fist connects with his sternum.  Or, rather, what’s left of it.  Tony bows under the blow, exhaling hard, and Bucky sees red.  The reactor aches in his chest, like it’s been punched out of him, and he can’t quite catch his breath.

 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Bucky yells, and that’s when Tony realizes he’s gotten in between them, and Steve’s nose is bleeding.

 

“This is wrong,” Steve says, not bothering to staunch the flow as he glares at them, “This is right up there with creating a self-improving AI.”

 

“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” Tony says, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm as he starts forward again.  He uses it to right himself, and then points a finger at Steve.  “Second of all,  _fuck you_.  But third, Steve, seriously?  How many times do I have to apologize for that?  I had no idea that was what was going to happen.  I was  _scared_ , and I was trying to protect us.”

 

“And look what you did.  Great job,” Steve spits venom at him.

 

“Fourth of all,” Tony continues, “Let’s not pretend this is about Ultron.  This is about you having feelings for me, being denied those, and then finding Bucky and I together.”

 

“Because this—” Steve jerks a hand between them, “—is not a bad idea on its own.  You are both unstable.  It’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt, and we’ll be lucky if it’s you and not the world.”

 

Steve starts to turn away, but Bucky steps forward, says, “Steve,” in this voice that’s small and throws him right back to late nights curled together.

 

“Why would you do this to me?” Steve says without looking at him.

 

“Steve, please—”

 

He shakes his head, and Bucky closes his mouth, watching him go.  Tony waits until Bucky’s shoulders slump forward, and then he says, “So I’ve got two reactions ready to go.  Wanna give me a hand on which one’s correct?”  Bucky turns, waiting.  “So, Cillian Murphy and tea?”

 

Bucky sighs, and he looks so relieved that Tony almost pats himself on the back for a job well done.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, heading for the door, and then, when they’re in the elevator, “Who’s Cillian Murphy?”

——

 

It’s always just before dawn when Tony leaves.

 

He wakes because he’s trapped in a dark, hot cave, the air heavy and dead around him.  He does so quietly, shakes up into consciousness and darts away from Bucky, pausing at the edge of the bed to try to catch his breath.  He starts to rise, and then cool, metal fingers curl around his wrist.

 

“Stop running away,” a soft voice mumbles behind him.

 

“I,” Tony begins and can’t continue.  He closes his eyes, trying to block out the heat, but it’s still there, still trying to choke him, and he twists out of Bucky’s grasp, gets up and tries to escape.

 

“Tony,” Bucky says.

 

He pauses at the door, fingers curled tightly around the handle, trying to  _breathe_.

 

“Come back,” Bucky says, and Tony can’t.  He doesn’t understand why Bucky doesn’t understand.  Instead, he turns the handle and steps out into the quiet darkness of the hallway.  He doesn’t get far, instead staggers into the wall and slides down until he can hide from his fears.  He presses his face against his thighs, arms hugged up around his head, fingers fisting in his hair as he tries to just get away.

 

When he next surfaces for air, Bucky is beside him, and Tony lets out this wounded noise, shrinking away.  “It’s just me,” Bucky says, leaning their shoulders together.

 

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, and is forced to clear his throat when his words come out hoarse.

 

“You don’t need to run away every time you have a nightmare, Tony,” Bucky says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“You—aren’t?”  It’s not  _at all_  what Tony means to say, and he immediately hates every ounce of his being when it comes out.  He shakes his head quickly, jerking up off the floor and to his feet.  “Forget I ever said that,” he mutters, starting to walk away.

 

Bucky follows him, catching his elbow and tugging Tony back toward him.  “Listen to me carefully,” he says, “Your shit is my shit now, so lay yourself bare.”

 

Tony inhales slowly, traps it in his chest, and asks, “All our wires on the table?”  He doesn’t miss the way Bucky glances, so quick he almost doesn’t catch it, at the reactor.

 

“If you’ll have me,” Bucky says.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, striding past him and back toward his bedroom.  They had decided not to spend the night in the suite he shared with Steve as that would undoubtedly cause trouble.

 

When they enter, Jarvis asks, “Is everything alright, sir?”

 

“Getting there, Jay,” Tony says before he climbs back into bed, waits until Bucky gets in opposite him, and then tugs off his shirt in one fluid movement.  “Just,” Tony says, and isn’t sure where that sentence is going until Bucky leans over, kissing him easily.  It’s so warm and  _human_ , so far removed from sand dunes and watching a burning coal dart dangerously close to Yinsen’s mouth that Tony nearly breaks.  Instead, he curls a tight hand around Bucky’s wrist and drops his hand over the reactor, shivers at the soft crash of metal on metal.

 

Bucky traps his hand there, fingers spread wide, and when he pulls away to look at Tony, his eyes big and brown and beautiful, Tony doesn’t bother hiding his smile.  “Okay,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, kissing him again, “Me too.”

——

 

There’s no earthquake the morning after Steve finds out.  Bucky thinks maybe tectonic plates would shift if he was really that angry, but then it occurs to him that they really haven’t been hiding this that well, and that no one’s surprised in the slightest when Tony nudges his way under Bucky’s arm and loops his arms around his waist, head dropping to his chest.

 

Except for Clint, who shrieks, “ _Wait_!”

 

“There has to be confirmation!” Sam yells, throwing a sugar packet at Clint, who snatches it out of midair and holds it above his head.

 

“I thought we confirmed this at your massacre celebration?” Thor asks from where he’s knelt by the freezer, rummaging around for waffles.  Grant is by his side, helping him by leaning on him.

 

“Massacre celebration?” Tony asks, lifting his head and looking over at him, frowning briefly at the dog. Wanda starts giggling uncontrollably at the island, dropping her head into her arms to try to muffle them.

 

“Oh god, the Native Americans,” Bucky says suddenly, and drops his face into Tony’s hair.

 

“ _Thor_ ,” Sam groans as he finally drops onto a seat, “Warn a man before you try to commit humor-based murder.”

 

“How do you cook these?” Thor asks, brandishing the box of waffles at Bucky.

 

“I’ll help,” Wanda says when Bucky looks back at them.  She takes the waffles from Thor, who takes her seat, and together, they whip up a feast.  Tony leaves eventually to make coffee, tells Clint to  _fuck right off a cliff_  when he demands a mug, as well.

 

“So, do you confirm?” Clint asks as he’s pouring.

 

“What am I confirming?” Tony says, narrowing his eyes at him, “I’ve done a lot in the last 48 hours.  For one, I got kidnapped.  I confirm that.”

 

“Yes, Clint,” Bucky says. “I win,  _ha_ ,” Clint says, sticking his tongue out at Sam.

 

“Hey, big guy,” Nat says as Bruce comes in, yawning, “How are you feeling?”

 

“Tired,” he mumbles, bumping Clint out of the way so he can get to his tea, and they all make noise when he chooses an Earl Grey.

 

“Caffeine is for intelligent people,” Tony says.

 

“Well, intelligent person, set the table,” Wanda says before she drops a stack of plates in front of him.  Tony groans loudly at her, but he still scoops them up into one hand and goes to do as he’s told.

 

He’s just finishing up the last plate when he turns and finds Steve standing in the doorway.  “Hey,” Steve says.

 

“This is your fault,” Tony says, pointing to his bruised jaw, “So back up.”

 

“I’m not sorry,” Steve says, and that’s when Tony notices he’s got a handful of utensils.  Most importantly,  _knives_.

 

He keeps his distance, though he highly doubts Steve would actually stab him.  “I know you’re not,” Tony says, “Which is why I told you to back up.”

 

“You’re making a mistake,” Steve says firmly, “One of you is going to hurt the other.  You’re not  _safe_ , Tony.  Neither of you are.”

 

“Oh, that’s rich,” Tony mutters, “You’re so much better?”

 

“You’re a ticking time bomb, Tony.”

 

“I’ve been sent in to mediate?” Betty says as she comes in, an armful of empty glasses, “What am I mediating?”

 

“Steve thinks I’m a bad idea.”

 

“You sometimes have bad ideas,” Betty agrees, “But in general, you’re pretty fun.”

 

“I’m fun,” Tony agrees.

 

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Tony,” Steve says, finally moving away from the doorway to place a fork and knife at each plate.  Tony circles the table opposite him, and Steve sighs loudly at him.  “I’m not going to hit you again.”

 

“I’m not so sure you’re safe, either, at the moment.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Cap,” Tony says, and Steve frowns, “Exactly.  We’re Avengers, nothing more.  I am not your friend if this is how you’re going to act.  I have enough poison to suck out of my life, I don’t need it from you, too.”

 

“A bit much?” Betty says, setting her last glass down and joining Tony at the doorway.

 

Tony very discreetly takes her hand, and Betty looks at Steve when she feels Tony’s trembling fingers.  “You’re really going to throw away all of this for someone as broken as you?”

 

“Throw away what exactly?” Tony says, “This is a fragile friendship at best.  Never mind the insults toward my person while you putter about assuming I wouldn’t risk my life for you or any of the other members of this team, but then there’s the fact that you  _tried to kill me_.”

  
“I didn’t—”

 

“Your aim is impeccable, Rogers,” Tony says, “You were aiming for the reactor.”

 

“I didn’t hit it, did I?” Steve snaps, slamming one of the knives down.

 

“No, because you can’t have that on your conscious, can you?  But here you are, still punching your way out of your own fucking messes,” Tony says, hand tightening around Betty’s before he leaves, pulling her with him.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks when they’re back in the hall.

 

“Fine,” Tony says, releasing her hand, “Thank you.”

 

“Tony,” she tries, but he heads back into the kitchen without her, going to make another cup of coffee.

 

“Hey,” Bucky says when he sees the way Tony’s mouth is pulled tight as he glares at the coffee machine, “Something happen?”

 

“I just—” he swallows his words when Bucky loops an arm around him, pulls him close, and kisses his bed messy hair.

 

“I’m here,” Bucky says.

 

“ _Gross_ ,” Clint and Sam say at the same time.  Nat holds out her hand behind Sam’s back for a low five, and Clint almost falls off his seat, he’s so excited.

 

Tony laughs at them and drops a kiss on Bucky’s jaw before he goes back to his coffee.  He makes a face after his first sip, glares at Bruce, and says, “I’m onto you.”

 

“I forgot to change it,” Bruce says, “I have third degree burns on my back,  _go away_.”

 

The entire kitchen erupts in laughter. Breakfast is a loud affair.  They made enough food to feed a mid-sized army, but Steve, Thor, and Bucky are all relentlessly starving after the battle yesterday, so they eat half of the food themselves.  Tony is absolutely astonished when Bucky gets  _more_ eggs, for a  _third_  time, but then he sees the pile of waffles on Thor’s plate and the sheer amount of bacon Steve has, and really, it’s unnecessary.  Clint tries his damndest to keep up with them, though Sam sagely advises him, “Been there, tried that, nearly died, man.  Not worth it.”

 

“Dude, but these pancakes,” Clint says, and Sam agrees, grabbing another

 

 “Okay, so,” Bruce says an hour later when they’re all just hanging out around the table.  Tony’s leaning back against Bucky, toes tucked under Bruce’s thigh, and a mug of something in his hands.  Bruce has one hand around Tony’s ankle, thumb drawing slow circles across the top of his foot while Betty taps out a rhythm with her toes on his other thigh.  “ _Lion King_  is tonight,” Bruce says, “I know everyone forgot, but—”

 

Immediately, Thor, Clint, Wanda, and Sam start singing loudly, “Naaaaaaants ingonyamaaa bahithi babaaaaaa.”  Grant howls right along with them, and Bucky starts laughing, dropping a hand to pet through his fur.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Bruce says, though he’s smiling, “Show starts at eight.  Anyone fancy dinner beforehand?”

 

“Already arranged,” Tony says, surprising them all.  “What?” he adds at the shocked looks, “You asked me to arrange something.”

 

“And you did?” Bruce says, blinking at him.

 

“Rude,” he says.

 

Thor, Clint, Wanda, Sam, and Grant continue, “Sithi uhhmmmmmmm ingonyamaaaa.”

 

“What time is dinner?” Betty asks.

 

“5PM,” Tony says, “You asked for an early reservation, stop looking at me like that.”

 

“You’re staying,” Bruce says to Bucky, who laughs out of sheer surprise. Steve gets up and leaves.

 

“Well,” Nat says a fully sixty seconds of painful silence later, “This is fun.”

 

“I take it Steve’s not happy?” Wanda says, looking over at Tony and Bucky.

 

“Not really,” Tony says, and then nearly falls over when Bucky suddenly pushes his chair back.  Bruce grabs onto him, though, and Tony looks behind him, confused.

 

“Excuse me,” Bucky says quietly before he leaves, as well, Grant at his heels.

 

“ _Dogs_ ,” Tony says angrily.

 

“I’m still utterly baffled by the fact that you, of all people, have an allergy and haven’t complained about it profusely,” Sam says.

 

“Well, there’s never been a barking thing in our company, has there?  Do you bark?” he directs when Thor makes a face, “You may look like a golden retriever, but—okay, sidetracking.  Everyone got suits for tonight?”  When everyone gives him strange looks but Clint, he says, “Guys, Broadway.  Seriously, is Barton the only one prepared?  Wait,  _Thor_.”

 

“Yes, Thor,” Wanda says, turning, “I thought you had to leave because of Yule?”

 

“Ah,” Thor says, “Well.  Asgard is not as—happy, I guess, as I led you to believe.  We are not, for the first time in several centuries, holding a Yule celebration.”

 

“What?” Betty says, looking distraught, “Darling, you have to stay here and join us.  Bruce, you got an extra ticket, right?”

 

“Just in case, yeah,” Bruce says.

 

“It’s settled, then,” Betty says, “You’re staying here for Christmas.  No ifs, ands, or buts about it.  Now, come on, everyone pull their weight, let’s get this cleaned up.”  Bruce smiles up at her as she stands, gathering plates.

 

Tony watches them, smiling, and he wonders if he’ll ever be that noticeably in love.

 

Bucky finds Steve on the roof, a mug of tea steaming at his side.  When he sits next to him, Grant sits in between them, like he’s a physical barrier to stop the tidal wave that’s approaching.

 

“Hey buddy,” Steve says softly, lifting his tea and threading a hand through Grant’s fur.  Bucky lets him have his moment, sipping his tea and looking out upon Manhattan.  Finally, Steve says, “What?”

 

Bucky swallows his sigh, instead training his gaze on Manhattan, as well.  “I’m sorry that I hurt you,” he says softly.

 

“I loved you,” Steve says without preamble, and Bucky feels the air punch right out of him.  Grant drops to his belly, turning his head to rest on Bucky’s lap.  Bucky uses him to ground, to pull him back.

 

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” Bucky says as his throat gives up working and starts to close in on him.

 

“I still—love you,” Steve says, and it sounds like it hurts for him to admit that.

 

“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “You don’t.  You do, but not like that.  Don’t try to put that on me.  It’s not going to work.”  Some of the air is starting to return, and he inhales it quickly, tries to hold onto it for when the next wave comes.  “I will always love you,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “But in this time, in this new world, not like that.”  He finally dares look over at Steve, who refuses to meet his gaze, still staring out at the city.  “You’re my brother, Steve.”

 

Steve closes his eyes, head dropping.  “I don’t want to be,” he whispers, “I thought—I thought I was falling for Tony.  I did.  I honestly believed that I was, and then, when I saw you with him, I couldn’t breathe.”  Steve finally looks up and over, and Bucky hates this space in between them.  “I didn’t want to breathe.  I’ve lost you so many times, and it feels like that all over again.”

 

“I am right here,” Bucky says, “And I’m—shit, I’m happy, Steve.  Life has been fucking brutal, but I finally found a bright spot, and I’m not letting it go.”

 

Steve shakes his head, turning back to Manhattan.  He sips his tea before he says, “I thought I was that bright spot for you.  After everything—”

 

“After everything, I don’t understand why you can’t see that you still are.  Steve, nothing will erase what you and I have, but I’m trying to move on.  I’m trying to fit into this world somehow.  It doesn’t need to just be me and you anymore.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “Guess I’m just having trouble wrapping my head around that.”  Without warning, Grant lifts his head and leans to the right, settling against Steve, who looks startled for a moment before he carefully wraps an arm around him.

 

“Steve—”

 

“No,” Steve says, looking at him again, “I won’t lie to you.  I know that we can have other friends, Buck.  I was doing just fine before you came back, and hell, life is a lot better with you in it again, but this—this is dangerous.  He’ll hurt you.  Even worse, you’ll hurt him.”

 

“I know it’s not ideal, but—”

 

“It’s catastrophic.  This is going to end in blood.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says before he gets to his feet, “Grant, stay.”

 

“Don’t come looking for me when it all falls apart,” Steve tosses over his shoulder.

 

Bucky slams the door behind him.

 

——

 

Tony feels like he should have seen this coming.  In all fairness, he did don his burgundy suit and gold shirt, fixing a matching tie as Bucky walked in wearing a black suit and blood red shirt.  “You clean up well,” he says as Bucky’s left fingers disappear into his pocket.

 

“Oh, just wait,” Bucky says, fighting a grin, “This is going to be an interesting night.”

 

Somehow, someone clearly crazy enough convinced Bruce into a plum suit with a dark, forest green shirt underneath.  That’s all it takes for Tony to understand, and then he’s groaning loudly.  “Guys, no,” he says despairingly.

 

“Guys, yes,” Clint says as he strides out, proudly, in a slim black suit with a vibrantly purple shirt on beneath.

 

“This is the worst moment of my life,” Tony says.

 

“Okay, red and gold,” Nat says as she comes out, red hair neatly pinned up in looping curls.  She’s wearing a black gown with a high neck, and a nonexistent back, though there is a red sash across the middle of her back.

 

Everyone has similarly gone all out.  Steve is wearing royal blue with a red tie over a white shirt, Betty is in a green gown that shimmers when she walks, Sam is wearing black on black with a red bowtie, Rhodey has joined them on a rare night off in a charcoal grey suit with a black shirt, Wanda is wearing a corseted red dress that billows out and a black shawl, and Thor, bless him, is dressed in true Asgardian fashion with a massive black shawl wrapped around his shoulders beneath his red cape.

 

“What the fuck ever, right?” Tony says, and takes Bucky’s hand.

 

They head down into the garage, forced to take two trips because Thor is just everywhere, and Steve offers to stay behind with him.  Tony refuses to be seen arriving in one of SHIELD’s SUVs, so he corrals Bruce and Betty into one of his Audis, slips in behind the wheel, and grins at Bucky.

 

The drive to the restaurant is relatively short-lived, though Bruce’s apparently got a few surprises up his sleeve, though he quietly admits it was Betty’s idea initially.  For, when they arrive, Jane is waiting outside, dressed in this gorgeous golden gown that Thor informs them is of Asgard.  Her smile is wide enough to chase away the sun, and Thor quite honestly lifts her off her feet in greeting.

 

Darcy is also with her, and Tony laughs when he spots Converse beneath a strapless, black tulle dress.

 

“Man, I need a girlfriend,” Sam says right before Darcy steps up between him and Rhodey, hooking her arms through theirs.

 

“Let’s go, boys, the safari awaits,” she says, pulling them off.

 

They have an extravagant night out, and Tony insists they put it on Stark Industries if only so he can listen to Pepper sigh angrily at him.  “Tony,” Bruce sighs.

 

“It’s not charity,” he says, pointing at him, “I’d just like to treat my friends to a nice evening out.  Also, no, scoot, I’m saving that seat,” he adds when Bruce tries to sit next to him.

 

“What?  For who?”

 

Tony taps his ear and says, “Yes, Friday?”

 

“The hostess is giving Mister Parker a hard time, sir.”

 

“Back in a flash, darlings,” Tony says before getting up.  Peter gestures his way as Tony approaches, and the hostess suddenly looks horrified.  “Hi, yes, he’s with me,” Tony says, “I see you got the memo.”

 

Peter’s in a navy blue suit with a red shirt beneath it, and he just grins as Tony hooks an arm around his shoulders.  “Can I—I brought a friend,” Peter says.

 

“Oh lord,” Tony says, turning to look back as Peter does so, waving toward the doors.  Tony relaxes when he sees not a wildly flailing man, but instead a blonde woman clicking angrily toward the doors and storming inside.

 

“The absolute _nerve_ of some people,” she says as she approaches them, “All up in arms about—oh my god, you’re Tony Stark.”

 

“Miss Stacy, it’s an absolute honor,” Tony says, taking her hand and kissing her fingers, “I’m so pleased you could join us tonight.”

 

“Wade’s out on a job,” Peter says, “so stop being flattering.”

 

“The statement stands.  Shall we?”

 

Tony leads them back to the table, where they shift around to make room.  Jane immediately introduces herself to Gwen, who fangirls momentarily over her, and then they get talking, which pulls Betty in, and Tony smiles, nudging Bruce as he watches them.

 

Dinner is full of good food, genuine laughter, and Bruce freaking out when he checks his watch and finds they only have thirty minutes to get to the theatre.  As Tony’s handing off his credit card to their waiter, Bucky’s hand curls around his knee, and he smiles, looking over.

 

“There are several reporters outside,” he says, and Tony’s smile disappears.

 

He doesn’t check, but it’s almost as if he can feel their overwhelming presence now that he knows.  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll take care of it.”

 

Bucky tries to ask how, but their waiter is back, trying to hand the check to Tony, who makes this awful face, so Bucky takes it, thanking him.  “You never did tell me about that,” Bucky says as Tony signs with a flourish.

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder and says, “I was an early drinker anyway, but Obadiah always used to sneak me alcohol behind my father’s back, and I’d always end up piss drunk and pass out.”

 

Bruce hears them, and looks over abruptly at the same time Tony’s pen halts, and he stares down at the paper like something’s wrong.

 

“Is there an error, sir?” their waiter asks.

 

“Oh my god,” Tony says, looking up and over at Bruce.

 

“Tony,” Bruce says slowly.

 

Tony looks away sharply, finishes off his signature, and jerks upright, chair scraping back.  “Tony,” Bucky says, starting to follow him, but Tony holds up a hand even as he turns, walking quickly in the direction of the bathrooms.

 

“Is everything okay?” Rhodey asks, starting to rise.

 

“No,” Bruce says, glancing at him before he follows Tony.  Rhodey is right behind him, and Bucky is torn, unsure whether or not to stay or go.

 

“Sweetheart,” Betty’s voice draws him back, “He needs you.”

 

Bucky nods and nearly jogs after them.  He catches up with them, and Rhodey is the first one inside, pushing open the door slowly and calling out Tony’s name.  The sound of someone vomiting echoes back to them, and Rhodey hurries inside, banging through the stalls until he finds the one with Tony, dropping down behind him.

 

“Tony,” he says, laying one hand against his back.  Tony groans and pushes himself away until his back hits the wall.

 

“I can’t,” he says, fingers stumbling over the buttons on his shirt.

 

“What’s going on?” Rhodey says, trying to stop Tony’s hands.

 

“Don’t,” Tony whispers, finally getting one undone, “I can’t do this anymore, I can’t.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“What did he do to you, Tony?” Bruce asks, and Tony lets out this awful, shattering noise that Bucky wants to swallow down for him, wants to take all of this pain fighting its way to the surface so he doesn’t have to hurt anymore.

 

“Tony!” Rhodey yells when his fingers find the reactor, twist, and set it loose.

 

“Take it away,” Tony pleads, pressing it into his hands, “I don’t want it.”

 

“Jesus, Tony,” Rhodey says, trying to push it back toward him, “Are you crazy?  You’ll die without it.”

 

“I know,” Tony says, looking up at him, “I don’t even know what—god, he could have done _anything_.”

 

“Who?”

  
“O-Obie,” Tony says, letting his hand clatter to the floor, taking the reactor with it.

 

Rhodey looks back at them, helpless, and Bruce starts forward, but Bucky stills him with a hand on his arm.  “May I?” he says, and Bruce nods, stepping back.  Rhodey gets up to allow him room, and Bucky carefully curls metal fingers around Tony’s wrist as his other hand comes up to curl around his jaw.

 

“Bucky,” he whispers when he recognizes him, “I don’t know what happened.”

 

“I know,” Bucky says, thumb stroking over his cheek, “But I’m here, and I’m going to help you through it.  Okay?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, Tony,” Bucky says firmly, “I am _not_ letting you go.  Do you understand me?”

 

“Why?”

 

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Bucky says, letting go of his wrist when Tony’s breaths start to shift into something painful.  He doesn’t look away from Tony, but his fingers find the reactor, and Tony exhales at the crash of metal on metal that he loves so much.  “You’re amazing,” Bucky continues, lifting it from the floor, “And I love every single one of your scars.  They make you human.”

 

“You’re not a monster, don’t you dare imply that,” Tony says, suddenly furious.

 

Bucky fits the reactor back in, fingers curling tighter around Tony’s jaw.  “Neither are you,” he says before he twists, listening to it click and sink in.  There’s this soft whirring noise, and it’s warm against his hand even though the metal is cold.  “He’s dead.”

 

“He—”

 

“He can’t hurt you anymore.  And even if he could, I would kill him again for you.”  Tony has no response to that, just looks at Bucky like he’s hung the sun.  “Are you ready?” Bucky says, holding out his metal hand, “I heard Broadway’s pretty good.”

 

“Pretty good,” Tony echoes, the ghost of a smile haunting his mouth, “You’re going to love it.”

 

“Only if you come with,” Bucky says, so Tony nods and takes his hand, lets himself be pulled to his feet.  “Come here.”

 

Bucky pulls him close, wraps one arm around Tony as his metal fingers disappear in his hair, curl around the base of his skull and hold him steady.  “Thank you,” Tony whispers into his neck.

 

When they part, Bucky quickly does up his shirt, fixes his tie, and says, “Wash your mouth, or I’m not kissing you,” and somehow, that makes him laugh.

 

Bucky knows he’s just putting on a brave face when they leave the bathroom.  He sees Bruce quickly shake his head as the rest of the team starts to approach, and so, they wait for them to return to the table.  “Really, though,” Betty says to break the tension, “We’re going to be late at this rate.”

 

“Let’s go, jackets on,” Steve says, and immediately regrets his words as everyone at the table makes fun of him.

 

“Don’t forget, reporters,” Tony says as they’re nearing the doors.

 

Bucky just squeezes his hand and says, “Let them talk.  I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“You aren’t?” Tony asks, and though he sounds as terrified as he had last night, it’s accompanied with a small smile.

 

By way of answer, Bucky pushes open the door, letting Tony lead the way.  Outside, they’re bombarded.

 

“Mister Stark, have you really let the man who killed your parents into your home?”

 

“Captain Rogers, is it true you recently participated in the death of General Ross?”

 

“Thor, with your presence here, should we expect another alien attack?”

 

“Miss Foster, what is it like to date a _demigod_?”

 

The last word is said so derisively that Tony pauses by his car long enough to say, “All our wires on the table,” before he tugs Bucky toward him and kisses him.  It’s chaste and simple and _quick_ , and only two of the reporters notice in time, but they snap photos, and it’s all Bucky can do to not grin stupidly as he drops into the passenger seat.

 

“Well, _shit_ ,” Bruce and Betty say at the same time as they get in the back.  Tony just grins something feral and takes off, revving his engine as he passes Rhodey, who hollers out the window and guns after him.

 

 _Lion King_ is phenomenal.

 

Steve either forgets he’s mad at Bucky or leaves it behind them for now, for he’s gushing during the intermission with him about how truly wonderful it is.  Peter disappears during intermission to call Wade, and Jane starts talking to Gwen about a possible project together, which Gwen is so thrilled about, her excitement is almost palpable.

 

Thor and Sam disappear to find drinks for those interested, Wanda gets into an extensive argument with Clint about the architecture of the building, and Nat surprises them all by asking a woman a few rows down to take a group picture of them.  It’s a truly massive feat considering how many of them have come out tonight, but, as Steve tosses an arm around Bucky, drawing him close, Bucky feels this immense sense of belonging that he hadn’t known he was searching for.

 

The second half is as captivating, and they’re all grinning and chattering excitedly as they exit.  There are reporters again, all snapping photos and shouting for them.  “Yo Avengers,” Tony says, glancing at Bruce before he steps to the side.

 

Betty starts to follow, but Bruce catches her hand, and she stops.  “Bruce?” she says as everyone gathers behind her.

 

“Betty,” he says softly, taking her other hand, “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” she says, glancing back at everyone, “What’s going on?”

 

“I would be lost without you,” he says, releasing one of her hands, “And I couldn’t imagine being apart from you again.”  As his hand drops into his pocket, Betty gasps, hands darting up to her mouth.

 

“Hold onto your socks, lovers,” Tony says from the back.

 

“Oh, Tony,” Peter groans, lifting his hands to his ears.

 

“Bruce,” Betty says as he drops to one knee.

 

“I want to hold onto you forever,” he says, “I want every moment to be spent with you, and I want to wake up to you every day.  Will you marry me?”

 

“Yes!” Betty exclaims.

 

Tony sets off a firework.

 

“Shit!” he yelps when it explodes away from him, burning his fingers.  As it explodes over them, Betty pulls Bruce up and kisses him, and Steve is the first to react, cheering and clapping.  Everyone follows his lead as golden fire reigns down from the sky, bright as Betty’s smile.

 

They go out for celebratory drinks after, though Tony leads them to the newly reconstructed Stark Tower, sending them up to the roof where a glass dome keeps them sheltered from the cold, and where they drink and laugh and love under the stars.

 

——

 

Back in the garage, Tony quietly asks Bucky for a few hours alone, and Bucky nods, though he’s nervous as he watches him drift off toward his suite.  Grant’s prowling about looking to go outside, though, and so Bucky quickly changes out of his suit, into something comfortable, and pauses in front of Steve’s door.

 

He hates every moment of this, so he knocks on his door and waits.

 

“What?” Steve says when he opens the door and finds Bucky on the other side.

 

“I was gonna go out with Grant if you wanted to come.”

 

Steve looks like he’s going to spit something awful at him a second before Grant bumps his head against Steve’s knee, and he caves.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, turning back into the room to grab a jacket.

 

They take the elevator down, and the first few minutes are spent in silence, hands stuffed in their pockets as they make their way down the long driveway of the compound.  “Steve?” Bucky says uncertainly when they’ve reached the edge and take a right onto the road.  It’s not traveled much beyond those that live at the compound, but it’s still dark, so he keeps an eye out for Grant even as he glances at Steve.

 

“I know,” Steve says, shrugging his shoulders up by his ears, “I just—I’m not happy about this.”

 

“I know you aren’t,” Bucky says, “And while I understand, I just thought, I dunno, you might try to give me your support.  I know that this is probably a bad idea, but he makes me happy, and I know that seems strange, after everything, but it feels a little closer to—” Bucky trails off, not really sure what words will describe this sense of calm inside of him.

 

“A little closer to forgiving yourself?” Steve asks.  When Bucky nods, he continues, “I think that’s part of the reason I like Tony.  He’s _a lot_ like Howard in a lot of ways, but knowing all the terrible things Howard has done, Tony just—he more than makes up for that.  He’s brilliant, and he’s kind, even if most of the world sees just an asshole, and I’ve said such horrible things to him over the years only to realize they were completely unfounded.”

 

“Big man in a suit of armor?” Bucky says.

 

Steve sighs.  “Not one of my finer moments, clearly.  I’m not proud of the way that I’ve treated him, and then—I know why he’s still mad at me.  I almost killed him.  I thought about it, for a second.”

 

“I know,” Bucky says, “So did I.  It just takes time, Steve.”

 

“He’s clearly forgiven you,” Steve mutters, mouth drawing down into a deep frown.

 

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure he has, but I think this is helping him in the same way it’s helping me.”

 

“Isn’t that a little narcissistic to base a relationship on?” Steve tries.

 

“It’s not just that, so don’t do that,” Bucky says, “He’s—he’s got all the same shit in his life that I’ve had in mine. I don’t have to explain myself with him.  He already knows.”

 

“Buck—”

 

“Steve, I know you were there, and I know you grieved, and hell, you might still be grieving, but—Jesus, this sounds awful, it’s not the same.  You haven’t been tortured like that, cut open and made to feel like a monster.  You haven’t had another human being look at you like you’re a weapon, like you’ve been bred for the sole purpose of destruction.  You don’t—you don’t have any scars that make you feel like a machine, a _tool_.”

 

“So because he has a hole in his chest, and you have no arm, that makes sense?  Bucky, that’s ridiculous,” Steve says, stopping suddenly and turning toward him.

 

“Is it, though?” Bucky says, facing him and forcing Steve to hold his gaze, not letting him run again, “Steve, we grew up in the 40s.  We were frozen in ice and brought back to life.  You are the only person in the world who will ever understand that.  But the rest of it?  Tony’s been through a lot of the same shit I have, and he makes it okay.  As fucked up as he is, he’s a lot better off than I am, and he gives me hope.  I’m not saying you don’t, but it’s a different kind.  I love you, Steve.  Don’t ever think for a second I don’t.  I just might be falling in love with Tony, too.”

 

“Different kind of love,” Steve says, though he looks less like he’s on the offensive now.

 

“I get it,” Bucky says, “Rage against the machine if you want.  Not literally, Christ.  If you hit him again, I’m gonna hit you back.”

 

Steve breaks, smiling a little as he looks away, nodding.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, “Fair enough.  Though, seems only right to warn you, he can handle himself.”

 

“Oh, I know,” Bucky says, eyes going wide, “I’ve been on the receiving end of his anger plenty of times, and I don’t think for one second that it’s over.”  Steve’s smile cracks a little less at the edges at this, and so Bucky turns them around, heads back toward the compound.

 

“What happened tonight?” Steve asks as they’re approaching the driveway.

 

“Nothing good,” Bucky says, thinking about Tony up there alone, likely drinking himself into stupidity, “I should probably check on him when we get back.”

 

“Just be careful, okay?” Steve says, “And I know you are, and you can take care of yourself, but I’m going to worry about you even if you’re dead, so deal with it.”

 

“Don’t think I’ll be dead anytime soon, Rogers,” Bucky says, knocking their shoulders together, “Though I want to be burned when I am.  None of that burying my body shit.  I’ve come back to life enough times for this go around.  I’m all set.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Steve says.

 

They part ways on the communal floor, Steve heading for their suite while Grant follows Bucky toward Tony’s.  He knocks, but there’s no response, and fearing the worst, Bucky steps inside, looking around the dark room until he spots light coming out from the bathroom.  “Stay here,” he tells Grant before he carefully pushes the door open.

 

Tony’s head swivels toward him, and he gives him a soft, tired smile.  He’s drawn a bath, and there’s a small glass of amber liquid hanging from one of his hands.  “Hey,” Bucky says easily, coming forward to pluck the glass from his hands and drain the rest of it, “How are you?”

 

“Pruny,” Tony says before he shifts, sitting up, sloshing the water around him.  He stretches, groaning as his spine pops, and then curls his fingers around either side of the tub.  “I’m naked,” he says, and Bucky just laughs.

 

“I would hope so,” he says, “Do you often take baths clothed?”

 

“It’s happened before,” Tony says, and then he’s pushing himself out of the bath and stepping out, and he’s just—there.  Bucky lets his eyes wander, and finds himself pleasantly surprised at just how muscled Tony really is.  He hides it well, beneath layers and long sleeve shirts, but the curving lines around his arms and back are evidence that he works hard, and consistently.

 

“That’s right,” he says, strutting past, “Soak it all in.”

 

Bucky turns to watch his ass walk away, admiring the dip in his back, and then the soft glow of the reactor against his wet chest when he tugs on a pair of loose sweats.  They hang, showing off his hip bones, and Bucky wants so badly to press him down into the mattress and _bite him_.

 

“Do you want to talk about tonight?” he asks instead.

 

“Gross,” Tony says, heading for the bed, “Not even remotely.”

 

“Tony,” Bucky sighs, “What happened?”

 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Tony says, throwing back the blankets before he folds his legs and looks over at Bucky helplessly, “That’s what scares me.  I have absolutely no idea.  Why is that _dog_ in here?” he adds, nose scrunching up.

 

“I can send him Steve’s way,” Bucky says, already turning toward the door.

 

“No, it’s fine, I just—” Tony breaks off to sneeze, groaning after.  “Jay,” he whines.  The nightstand on the right shifts minutely, and Tony presses his index finger to the small circle that opens up and winces.  When he draws his finger back, there’s a small bead of blood.  “Dog protocol,” he says, sucking on his finger.

 

“Did your AI just drug you?” Bucky asks in disbelief.

 

“It’s a mild anti-allergen, I’m _fine_ ,” Tony says, “It’s an obnoxiously minor allergy anyway, but I hate sneezing.  It’s awful.”

 

“Do you ever get sick?” Bucky asks.

 

“Will you get in bed, or what?  You’re making me anxious just standing there,” Tony snaps at him, waving a hand unceremoniously to the other side of the bed.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but complies, kicking off his shoes and socks before he climbs in opposite Tony.  Grant jumps up to curl up at their feet, and Tony glares at him.  Tony turns his glare to Bucky’s jeans, and then flops onto his back, twisting over to grab a tablet from his nightstand.

 

“You’re impossible,” Bucky mutters even as he undoes his jeans and tosses them onto the floor.

 

“Duly noted,” Tony says before he scoots over, turning the tablet toward him.  Bucky sighs, but spins the little wheel that’s come up, grinning when Tony groans because it’s settled on romantic comedy.  “This is all Barton’s fault,” he grumbles as he starts searching for a halfway decent rom com to put on.

 

“Oh wait,” Bucky says as he watches the titles go by, “I heard about that one.”

 

“Uh,” Tony says, turning a wicked smirk up at Bucky, “Not technically a rom com.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Morbid humor and violence with some romance thrown in?”

 

“Yeah, but it’s got that guy that played Harry Potter,” Bucky says, reaching over to select a movie titled _Horns_ , “It’s bound to be awesome.”

 

It is.

 

They spend the next two hours laughing at the most inappropriate parts, and though it’s late, they’re both still awake when the credits start to roll.  “So,” Tony says a heartbeat before he pushes upright and swings a leg over Bucky, dropping down into his lap, “Heads up, I’ve got a shit ton of meetings next week, so I’ll be out of touch for a little while.”

 

“You do own a company, after all,” Bucky says, gaze flicking down to where Tony’s hands are pressing against his ribs, fingers flexing and spreading wide.

 

“Mm,” he agrees as he leans down, nose brushing along Bucky’s, “Can’t wait to sit in a room with a bunch of stuffy old men who don’t understand how to use their phones half the time, never mind the new tech we’re working on.”

 

“At least—” Bucky starts, but is cut off when Tony kisses him, and it’s different than all the others.  It’s sharper and quicker, teeth scraping over his bottom lip until Bucky opens to him, and Tony’s tongue darts in, tastes him before he pulls back again, looking down at him with dark, heavy eyes.  “Hey,” Bucky says, trying not to let the nervousness bleed into his voice.

 

“Hey yourself,” Tony says, and his voice is a low rumble that goes straight to Bucky’s dick.  Tony grins suddenly, a quick flash of something dangerous, a little bit feral before he’s kissing him again, hips rolling fluidly.

 

Bucky groans without meaning to, hands coming up to grip at Tony’s thighs, one staying in place and the other sliding higher to wrap around his waist, thumb digging in against his hip bone.  Tony kisses like absolute sin, leaves Bucky breathing hard and following him as he pulls away again, nose bumping at his jaw before he’s mouthing down his neck, grumbling when he reaches the collar of Bucky’s shirt.

 

“This is in my way,” he says, and well, okay, Bucky pushes him upright, pulling at Tony’s thigh to lift him up before he’s yanking it over his head, and then he’s there again, mapping out his chest, nipping sharply at his collarbone, and then, very carefully, kissing the edge where metal meets skin.  Bucky’s shoulder jerks back, and his hand squeezes Tony’s thigh harder than he means to if Tony’s shifting away from him is any indication.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says quickly, leaning back.

 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, closing his eyes and taking a slow breath, “It’s just—no one’s ever touched it before.”  He opens his eyes again, finds Tony looming above him, that soft blue glow caught between them.  Tony smiles, and it’s closer to the truth this time, a little less wicked looking, before he lifts a hand and taps against the reactor.

 

“Trust me, you’re one of few,” he says, “But I get it.”

 

There are words there that want to come out, but Bucky doesn’t trust them yet, so he pulls Tony back toward him, meets him halfway in a kiss that bruises.  Tony’s right hand ghosts over his side, follows the line of his hip, and then his thumb is hooking in Bucky’s briefs, and he grabs his wrist, stopping him.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

 

“Uh,” Tony says, and he’s got this look on like he thinks that’s a stupid question, “What comes next?”

 

“I’m not—no,” Bucky says, releasing his wrist.

 

Tony flinches back like he’s been burned, snapping up straight, one of his hands snatching Bucky’s hand off his thigh and dropping it away from him.  “Okay,” he says quickly, “Sorry.”

 

Bucky watches him roll off and away, and his brain only starts to catch up when Tony’s feet hit the floor and he’s _running away_.

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, sitting up, “What the hell?”

 

“What?” Tony says, pausing at the bathroom door.

 

“Where are you going?” Bucky asks.

 

“Clearly, I crossed a boundary,” Tony says, and then disappears into the bathroom.  Bucky sighs when the lock clicks behind him.

 

He takes a moment, sinking back against the pillows and trying to quiet the blood rushing in his ears, making his body feel hot and overwhelmed.  He tries to remind himself that this is a new era, that things are different now, but it doesn’t change the fact that he hasn’t been touched, _at all_ , in over seventy years.

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, knocking lightly on the bathroom door, “Will you please come out and talk to me?”

 

“Fuck, I’m not a child,” Tony says, opening the door and ducking around him.

 

“Well,” Bucky says.

 

Tony whips around, eyes narrowed.  “You said no, I backed off, what’s the big fucking deal?”

 

“Can you just—stop for a second?” Bucky says, “Please just—”

 

“What?  What do you want from me?”

 

“This,” Bucky says, “I want you, but—Tony, it’s been a long time.”

 

“Yeah, I get that,” Tony says, “I just thought we were there, that this was something you wanted.  _Clearly_ , I was wrong.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Bucky says, reaching for him before he can make an escape again.  Tony lets him hold onto his hand, though he’s looking at Bucky warily, and that hurts more than anything.  “I want this,” Bucky says, pulling him back toward him, “I want you.  I just need time.”

 

“Okay,” Tony says, though Bucky can see he still doesn’t believe that he hasn’t made some grave mistake.  Bucky sighs, closes his eyes, and drops his head.  “Hey, no,” Tony says, coming back willingly now, drawing Bucky against him.  “I’m sorry, I’m shit at this,” he presses the words against his shoulder, “I didn’t mean to push you.”

 

“You were the second person I hugged after seventy years,” Bucky says, and he feels understanding ripple through Tony.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and doesn’t pull back.  That, more than anything, makes Bucky hold on tighter.

 

When they do finally make it back to the bed, it’s Bucky that steps out of the embrace first.  Back in bed, with Tony looking like he doesn’t know what planet he’s on, Bucky laughs softly and reaches out.  It’s all the encouragement Tony needs before he’s curled close, one leg looped around Bucky’s and head resting on his shoulder, Bucky’s hand a warm, steady presence against his back.

 

“It’s just a lot,” Bucky says, “It’s, for lack of a better word, overwhelming.”

 

“Absolutely,” Tony says, “I can’t pretend I understand even a little bit, but I’m handing over the reins.  You give me a green light whenever you’re ready.  I’m dandy right here.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Tony snorts, and Bucky’s arm tightens around him.  “Listen, I’ll rock your cock later, but for right now, heck, maybe calm is good.  I’ve never really done that before.”

 

Bucky nods to himself before he takes a slow, deep breath, and he’s about to confess this terrible thing inside of him that he’s been biting back every time Tony kisses him when Tony says, “I know you had a thing with Steve, if that’s what you’re trying to work up the courage to say.”  Bucky deflates, the air going right out of him.  Tony pushes away from him, leaning on his elbow as he looks at him.  “Yeah,” he says, “I thought that might be why he was so upset.”

 

“He was the last one,” Bucky says.

 

Tony grimaces, but nods.  “Yeah, now I’m not horny,” he says, “Good job.”

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, frowning.

 

“No, not like that,” he says, “I’m just—not really attracted to Steve like that?  He kind of pisses me off so much that that whole shoulder to waist ratio thing just goes right over my head now.  I see him, and I think of eagles.”  Bucky bursts out laughing without meaning to, and Tony grins as he watches him.

 

“I hate you,” Bucky mutters as he pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his temple.  He can feel Tony’s smile shaped against his skin, and, for once, he falls asleep happy and doesn’t dream.

 

——

 

Bucky doesn’t get the memo that it’s the week before Christmas until Wanda says, “Are we actually getting a tree this year?  Sam’s spreading rumors.”

 

“A tree for what?” Bucky says, looking over at her in confusion.

 

“We can go pick one out today, if you want,” Steve says, sitting opposite them at the island with his breakfast, “Christmas, Buck.”

 

“It’s already _Christmas_?” Bucky says incredulously.

 

“Uh,” Wanda says, grinning at him, “It’s in six days.”

 

Bucky makes a face.  “Are there presents involved?”

 

Steve shrugs.  “Not sure.  Clint?”

 

“Yes, what, I didn’t do it,” Clint says as he comes in.

 

“You’re organizing the whole team Christmas thing.  Are we doing presents?”

 

“Duh,” Clint says, moving toward the stove.

 

“Clint!” Wanda exclaims, “There’s only six days left!”

 

“Oh, well it doesn’t have to be extravagant or anything,” he says, “Listen, I put it on the memo.”

 

“There was a memo?” Steve says.

 

“Yeah, it’s—” he breaks off to check his phone, his mouth dropping out into a little O, “I forgot to send it.  Six days is plenty of time, you’re fine.”

 

“Steve,” Wanda says firmly.

 

“We’ll do that today, as well, then,” Steve says, “Come on, get ready.”

 

Sam and Thor end up joining them, as well, and it’s easily the longest day Bucky has ever experienced.  It’s made easier because of Grant, who stays by his side, and the occasional message from Tony in between meetings or whenever he’s feeling bored, and so he’s not nearly as tired as he thinks he would normally be when they finally get around to looking for a tree.

 

“Divide, and conquer!” Sam yells, and that’s how they end up wandering around individually.

 

Bucky’s not really paying attention, just wandering through the trees, every one of which Grant needs to smell, and trying not to think about what the hell you get a genius who already has everything.

 

As though on cue, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and Bucky takes it out, smiling instinctively when he sees Tony’s name.  “I was just thinking about you,” he says by way of answer.

 

“I hope it was something naughty.  Oh, _Pepper_ , don’t give me that face,” he says, “She’s mad at me because we’re still at SI, and people could be _listening_.  Are you still out with boring one and two?”

 

“Thor and Wanda are here, too,” Bucky says, and Tony laughs, “We’re looking at trees right now.”

 

“So I’m starving,” Tony says, “Pepper wouldn’t let me eat lunch because she’s a sadist.  I was thinking I could take you out?”  He shapes it like a question, like he’s not sure this could still be a possible thing that’s happening in his life.

 

“Only if it’s not fancy,” Bucky says, frowning when Grant stops suddenly, ears perking up.

 

“I could murder at least three burgers.  And several pounds of fries.  You in?”

 

“Definitely.  I’ll let you know when we finish up here.  Steve’s—”

 

“A turd burglar, I know,” Tony finishes for him, “I’ve got an Eiffel tower of paper to sign anyway because we still print things out for god only knows what asinine reason.”

 

“Someone’s carrying,” Bucky says quickly.

 

“A weapon?” Tony says, and he still sounds a little too cheeky, which means his attention is elsewhere.

 

“Tony, they’re following me.”

 

He knows it doesn’t, but it feels like the air shifts through the phone, imagines he can see Tony’s shoulders going back as he stops walking.  “Are you alone?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is anyone nearby?”

 

“Grant.”

 

“He’s a dog, he doesn’t count.”

 

“They’re—I’ll see you later, yeah?” Bucky says and hangs up, dropping the phone back in his pocket before he turns down an aisle of trees, darts between two, and wraps a finger around Grant’s collar to hold onto him as the man stalks by.

 

He stops only a few feet away, and Bucky takes quick stock of him.  He’s carrying more than just the gun strapped beneath his jacket, he’s wearing a hood that covers most of his face, and his boots are familiar because Bucky’s worn them before.

 

He holds his breath and makes the mistake of looking away, trying to find Steve in the crowd.

 

When he next looks back, the man is gone, and Bucky swears softly under his breath.  He doesn’t move, though, just continues scanning the crowd, trying to find the man until cold metal presses against the back of his neck.

 

“You should be dead,” a coarse voice whispers against his ear, and Bucky ducks a heartbeat before he pulls the trigger.

 

Grant startles, running from between the trees as Bucky turns and slams an open fist against the man’s stomach and an elbow into his ribs, which does nothing more than piss him off.

 

He grins.  “You’re not getting away this time, soldier.”

 

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and starts running.

 

He doesn’t make it far.  He doesn’t intend to, either, but he also doesn’t expect a second shot to rocket through the night, clipping him on his right shoulder.  He swallows down the shout as he drops and rolls, landing on one knee as he checks the chamber of the gun he stole from the man.

 

He’s gone when Bucky tries to find him.  Bucky shifts the gun to his left hand, pulls out his phone with his right, and dials Steve.

 

“Where are you?” Steve asks when he picks up, “We heard a gunshot.”

 

“Hiding,” Bucky whispers, “He’s shooting at me.  He’s—Grant.”

 

“What?  Where is he?”

 

“He’s looking for me, one aisle over.  Steve, get him out of here.”

 

“Bucky—”

 

“Get him out of here, Steve,” Bucky growls, and then a bullet sinks into the flesh of his right shoulder, missing its mark by a full inch.  Bucky bites his lip bad enough that it bleeds, spins on the spot, and fires off one round.  It hits the man on his thigh, and though he stumbles, he keeps moving.

 

“Motherfucker,” Bucky spits before he jerks out from the trees, looking to each side quickly.  The aisle is deserted, people either hiding or occupied.  Sam, however, has just rounded the corner.

 

He’s about to wave at him to get away when Grant comes running around the same corner and toward him.  “Shit, no,” Bucky says, and drops to a knee.  Grant nearly collides with him, and Bucky wraps one arm around him, holding him steady.  He needs to focus.

 

Bucky looks away from Sam, finds a hole in the dirt in front of him, and lets it center him.  He can hear him breathing.

 

“Let’s go,” he whispers to Grant before he gets up, keeping low, and running down the aisle.

 

The man steps out of the trees.

 

Bucky hears the rustle when his jacket catches in the pines, and he turns sharply into the trees again, Grant at his heels.  Something cold is trying to snap open in him, but Grant’s presence keeps bringing him back, keeps reminding him where he is, when he is, _what_ he is.

 

Steve still smells like the apple cider spiced chai he got earlier, and Bucky bursts out of the trees a step behind him.  “It’s me,” Bucky says, dropping below a well-aimed punch.

 

“Fucking hell,” Steve says, pulling him upright, “He got you?”

 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Bucky says, twisting out of his touch, “He’s Hydra.”

 

“Wanda got everyone out.  Thor is—”

 

The man steps out of the trees, already shooting.  It hits him dead on before he can get his gun up in time, but he still unloads one bullet, a perfect headshot.  The man drops as Bucky gasps, forcing himself to remain upright even as pain laces through him.  It’s a specific kind of pain, something that leaves him short of breath, and though his training would keep him on his feet, as Steve twists the gun out of his hands, Bucky collapses, knees crashing into the ground.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, not bothering to mask his fear as he leans him back, looks at the wound spreading blood on his abdomen.  “It’s not bad,” Steve says, “We’re going to get you help.”

 

“It’s poisoned,” Bucky says, and Steve only blinks once before he’s hauling Bucky away from the ground, nearly carrying him away from the fallen body.  Grant is close at their heels, and Sam is just approaching when they turn a corner, heading for the main entrance.

 

“We need medevac,” Steve says as soon as he sees him.

 

“It’s already here,” Sam says, “Tony sent it.”

 

“What?”

 

“I was on the phone with him,” Bucky mumbles, “He—”

 

“Shit,” Steve says as he gets heavier, teetering dangerously close toward unconsciousness.

 

“I got you,” Sam says, coming over on his other side.

 

Together, they manage to get him to the waiting helicopter, and Sam promises to handle the situation as Steve climbs in after Bucky.  As soon as they’ve taken to the air, Steve pulls out his phone, swallows his pride, and texts Tony, _Thank you._

——

 

In true Winter Soldier fashion, Bucky fights off the sedative they’ve given him in the dead of night when no one expects him to, and escapes.  He discreetly shifts the heart monitor to Steve’s finger, who’s curled up in a chair near him, dead to the world and _snoring_ , and removes his IV while he’s checking over his file at the end of the bed.

 

Steve’s brought a bag with him, and Bucky quietly rifles through it until he finds a loose pair of sweats with NASA printed down the side, which he instantly recognizes as Tony’s and is a little baffled by, and a navy blue thermal.  His leather jacket has a hole in it, _bastard_ , but he still shrugs it on, frowning as his shoulder stretches, before he tugs on his boots and carefully avoids every camera and nurse on his way out.

 

He’s just stepping out into the crisp, winter air when a sleek black car pulls up in front of the hospital.  Grinning, Bucky opens the passenger side door, quite nearly giving Tony a heart attack if the resounding shriek is anything to go by, and slides in next to him.

 

“What the hell?” Tony says, and that’s when Bucky sees the gauntlet formed over his hand.

 

“That was quite the scream,” Bucky says.

 

Tony shakes off the gauntlet, sliding back into his watch, and says, “You’re supposed to be almost dead.”

 

“I hate hospitals,” Bucky says, and Tony deflates a little.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Alright, whatever.”

 

“I’m sorry I missed our date,” Bucky says.

 

“Asshole,” Tony agrees again, “I’m still hungry.  The meeting went late, and Steve was handling things, but I still tried to leave in the middle of it only to find out that SI had been kidnapped by fucking _Hydra_.”

 

“ _What_?” Bucky says, looking over at him in shock.

 

“Exactly my reaction,” Tony mutters, “Are you still hungry?”

 

“I could go for a burger or six,” Bucky says, and Tony grins, switching lanes.

 

“So there I was, hostage situation, real awesome.  It only just got tidied up twenty minutes ago, and I slipped out before Pepper could yell at me.”

 

“And how did you talk your way out of it this time?”

 

“I’ll have you know, I’ve only been taken hostage two times in my life,” Tony says, and then quickly amends, “Three times.  This was the fourth.”

 

“Jesus, really?” Bucky says, frowning, “What were the other ones?”

 

Tony waves a hand like it’s nothing, but his voice is still low and angry when he responds, “I was nine the first time.  Someone picked me up in my mother’s car after the school year was out, and I got in without thinking.  Do you know what Howard was more concerned about?  The fact that I didn’t check that it was her driving first.  He refused to pay the ransom.”

 

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, “That’s messed up.”

 

“Precisely.  The second time was Afghanistan.  Thank you, second father figure.”

 

“I didn’t know there was another one after that,” Bucky admits.

 

“I like to count the Mandarin as a hostage situation,” Tony says, slowing at a red light, “He did blow up my home, after all.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“What?  I know, heavy stuff, you just got shot, so sorry.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, reaching over for one of his hands, “You know it’s okay to let those things effect you, right?”

 

“Okay, Sam,” Tony says.

 

“Verbatim, yes, but he’s right.  It’s okay to be in a shit place after traumatic events.”

 

“Let’s not and say we did,” Tony says as the light turns green again, “How are you?”  Tony glances at him, and there’s more than just concern there; fear and sorrow, too, and it makes Bucky ache.

 

“In pain,” he decides to tell the truth, “But I’ll be okay.  Wait, it’s two in the morning.  Where are we going?”

 

“Burgers,” Tony says, and then takes a left into a McDonalds, “I never said they were going to be fancy burgers.”

 

Bucky just smiles, too in awe of this amazing man to say anything.  “Drive through?” Tony offers, already pulling around back.  He orders more food than is ever going to be necessary, makes Bucky take it from the window, and grins something evil when they hand him back his card with giant eyes and shocked expressions.  “Gimme one,” Tony says, wiggling his fingers in Bucky’s direction even as Bucky opens one of the bags.

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans, grabbing a fry and handing Tony a burger, “This is fucking heaven.”

 

Tony chows down the burger in four bites, which is really just impressive, and then Bucky’s sharing his fries while Tony regales him with the tale of the time he sat down in front of a press conference with a burger in his pocket and told everyone he was Iron Man.  He takes the bag from him when they’re in the garage, nods when Bucky just grins at him because Grant is waiting by the elevator, and gets out before Bucky can call him a sap.

  
“Hey buddy,” Bucky says, and Grant comes running over.

 

They take their late night food up to Bucky’s room, where they eat while watching _New Girl_ , laughing together until, finally, Bucky falls asleep again, and Tony presses a kiss to his temple before turning to Grant.  “You’re alright, I guess,” he says, and Grant starts to scoot closer.  Tony presses a foot against his side.  “Not that alright,” he says, and Grant settles.  “Jay, keep an eye on him, wake me if he wakes,” he says, and then pretends he’s ever going to fall asleep knowing that there are still people out there trying to kill Bucky.

 

——

 

Though he’s been inflicted with a duplicated serum of the original super soldier one, it’s not quite what Steve’s was, and it takes nearly a month for the effects of the poison to stop leaving him occasionally, and severely, fatigued, though it’s just three weeks before the bullet wound is almost healed over entirely.  There’s a scar on his shoulder now, and one in his abdomen, but Tony lays reverent kisses on them, and Bucky starts to forget about them.

They’re in the living room one night, a tangle of limbs and spare parts, Sam and Wanda on one of the other sofas, and Clint in an armchair.  Bucky and Clint are both reading, trying to finish _The Martian_ so that they can finally watch the movie, while the rest of them are watching old _Star Trek_ reruns.

 

“Oh, I haven’t seen this one!” Wanda exclaims as the credits roll on a new episode.

 

“Mm, it’s good.  Kirk almost dies,” Tony mumbles before he starts moving.  Bucky’s on the other end of the sofa, one leg extended down the back, and he shoves the other one off so he can clamber on top of him.  As he lies down, one hand slipping beneath his shirt to rest against the bruise on his abdomen where he’s still healing, Bucky smiles and threads a hand through his hair, resting at the nape of his neck as he settles the spine of his book on Tony’s head.  Tony loops his other arm around, wriggling it underneath Bucky until he can spread his fingers along his back.

 

“Tired?” Bucky asks as he turns the page.  Tony just grunts softly, letting his eyes close.  It’s such a strange feeling to him, to be able to just do this, _feel safe_.    Really, though, it’s more than that.  Even with Pepper, she only allowed so much.  He’s always been a physical person, always wanted to cling to something, but she was always sighing and pushing him away, like he was some kind of burden, and, in the end, he guesses he was, but this is nice.  Bucky is always right there when he needs something to touch, and half the time, it’s Bucky that’s reaching for him.

 

“Herbal or caffeine?” Tony hears someone say, and blinks to find that the episode has ended.

 

“Herbal,” Bucky says, “You awake?”

 

“No,” Tony groans, turning his face into Bucky’s stomach, “Caffeine.  And it better be fucking coffee.”

 

Bucky’s hand traces along his shoulders, rubbing circles occasionally, until Tony pushes upright and forward, pausing halfway.  Bucky smiles, this brilliant thing, and leans down to kiss him, hums when Tony inches closer until he can drop one knee in between his hip and the sofa.

 

He knows that Clint is still sitting in the armchair, probably making faces at them, but Bucky lifts his hand to Tony’s jaw, fingers curling around and holding onto him.  Tony pulls away on an inhale, kisses him again on an exhale, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip even as Bucky opens to him, swallows down a noise when he tastes Tony, this sharp scent of sleep and electricity and the last dredges of wicked coffee.

 

 _God_ , he wants him.

 

Bucky’s other hand shifts up to curl around his ribs, trying to find something to ground in as Tony drops closer to him, the weight and heat of his body driving Bucky mental.

 

“ _Alright_ ,” Clint says loudly.

 

Bucky jerks back, Tony laughs and kisses his jaw, and then he’s gone, clambering over to the other side of the sofa and accepting a mug of coffee from Sam.  Bucky pulls himself upright, trying to ignore the way his veins feel like they’re on fire.  “Thanks,” he says, taking a mug of tea from Sam and trying not to let his pleasant smile turn into this ridiculous grin.

 

Clint puts on _The Martian_ while Sam tells Wanda what it’s about, and Bucky only glances at Tony twice before he sees the corner of his mouth quirk up.  “You asshole,” he mutters, getting up and moving over to him.

 

“I did nothing,” Tony says, sipping his coffee.

 

“Mhm,” Bucky says, disbelievingly, leaning their shoulders together.

 

 _The Martian_ is actually the best movie Bucky’s seen.  _Ever_.  When he says as much, the entire room cheers, though Tony’s quick to clarify what ever means—“This side of the century or, like, actually ever?”

 

“Actually ever,” Bucky says, “Holy shit.  That’s what I want.  Realistic space movies.  Find them.”  He jabs Tony in the thigh.

 

“Ow, you little shit!” Tony yelps, punching him, “Well, there’s _Interstellar._ That’s mostly realistic.  Uh—”

 

“ _Gravity_ ,” Clint supplies, “And _Europa Report_.”

 

“No,” Tony and Sam say at the same time.

 

“You, too?” Tony says.

 

“The worst fucking ending of my life,” Sam says.

 

“Well, I’m awake,” Bucky says, “How long is the first one?”

 

“Balls to the wall,” Clint says happily, flipping back to Netflix, “ _Interstellar_ ’s got my home girl in it, too.”

 

“Jessica Chastain?” Wanda says, smiling, “I love her!”

 

“You just like her cos she’s a redhead,” Bucky accuses.

 

“Yes,” Clint agrees, and puts on the movie.  Nat arrives three minutes later, curls up in Clint’s lap, head resting on his shoulder, and Bucky decides to follow her lead.  He grabs a pillow, drops it in Tony’s lap, and settles there, smiling contently when he starts carding his fingers through his hair, occasionally dropping lower to rub against his sore shoulder.

 

The next day, he finds out, exactly seven weeks after he was shot, that Tony has been at war with the files Nat leaked what seems like whole decades ago.  Every name he finds, he hands over to Steve, who organizes a quiet extraction mission, and when he’s finally brought up to speed, Bucky is astonished to find that they’ve located thirteen Hydra agents so far and brought them into custody after ripping out their cyanide molars.

 

Around the end of February, Vision is in the kitchen making pancakes when Clint says, “Dude, where you been?”

 

“Mister Stark needed a reprieve from my voice, as he so eloquently put it,” Vision says, and Tony turns right out of the kitchen as he was coming in for coffee.

 

Later, Bucky brings him down a mug and asks him about it.  When Tony mutters his words at the floor, that Vision had walked in on him during a panic attack, and it had done nothing but make it worse because he thought it was Jarvis, Bucky wraps his arms tight around him and kisses every inch of skin he can find until Bruce clears his throat and says, “Yeah, still in here.”

 

Something shifts in March.

 

Peter flakes out of a team dinner, claiming it’s his and Wade’s eight year anniversary, which really, just leaves Bucky gaping because how the hell did he miss that?  Tony tells him that, originally, the entire team was against Wade, but they’ve all come around since they realized he wasn’t going anywhere.  When Bucky asks if he ever comes by, Tony just laughs and intends to tell him some obnoxious story about the last time Wade was near more than one of the Avengers at a time, but he kisses Bucky and forgets where he’s going, and this time, Bruce isn’t there to interrupt them.  Bucky’s missing a shirt and yanking Tony’s over his head when the call to assemble comes, and Tony’s face is so pitiful that Bucky is still laughing when he leaves the lab.

 

Eighteen hours, and their missing Skrull army later, Tony passes out face down in bed, and Bucky might be going crazy with how badly he wants him.  He’s sporting nasty bruises, and there’s a wicked gash along his ribs, but he’s so goddamn attractive, it’s not fair.

 

Two days later, he joins Sam downstairs for some training, lets him land a few punches, and sighs when Sam says, “Okay, stop buttering me up by letting me hit you, what’s going on?”

 

“It’s one of those conversations you’re going to be mad about having.”

 

Sam groans, punches his right shoulder for good measure, and makes an absurd face when Bucky feigns pain at his old bullet wound.  “Let’s do it over food,” he says, and that’s how they end up getting burritos in Brooklyn.

 

After Bucky darts right around his problem in the most elaborate of ways, Sam says, “Dude, if you want to bang him, just do it.”

 

“Honestly,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “You really are crude.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Humans.”

 

“Sorry I’m not running around looking for a dame to charm.”

 

“Only people like Steve used to say stupid shit like that.”

 

“ _I_ heard he was a much bigger potty mouth back in the day,” Sam says, brandishing his knife, “But then he got all _Captain America_ and became a goody-two-shoe.”

 

“Please,” Bucky laughs, “He never swore in front of Peggy or the general, but the Howling Commandos were a whole other thing.”

 

“Do you remember them at all?” Sam asks.

 

There are some things Bucky thinks he’ll never get back, and others that are triggered by seemingly random events or objects, but this, one of his fondest memories, was given back to him by Tony.  He had dug up some old videos his father had in storage, built a projector _from scratch_ when he couldn’t find a decent one, and then sent the whole kit and caboodle upstairs for Steve and Bucky to bawl over.  Really, it had been the tipping point, and though Steve doesn’t grin at them like Clint does, he’s not visibly upset anymore, either.

 

“A lot, yeah,” Bucky says, smiling, “They’re all dead.  Steve and I looked them up, thought maybe one of them would still be alive like Peggy, but we did manage to find where they were buried.”

 

“Wait a tic,” Sam says, “Is that why that crazy ass fund got set up last month?  I never thought I’d see Steve and Tony working amicably together again, and there they were, discussing plans for some charity Tony was creating in SI’s name.”

 

“Yeah, he’s—something,” Bucky says, and his smile is so fond that Sam groans at him again.

 

There’s this small part of him that wants it to be romantic, that wants there to be candles and maybe some music, that wants to sweep Tony off his feet and show him a good time, but, fortunately, he’s learning how to live in reality.  For, when he gets home after lunch, Tony is covered in grease, is arguing heatedly with Pepper about a stack of papers she’s holding, and has a hole burned into his shirt near his hip, so Bucky sneaks back upstairs and leaves him to it.

 

Though they’ve almost entirely migrated to Tony’s suite, Bucky still sleeps alone some nights, sometimes a few in a row, when Tony’s insomnia keeps him roaming the lab for hours on end, only coming back up out of sheer exhaustion.  He gets it, has his own nights where he prowls restlessly, and so he doesn’t try to stop him.

 

Regardless, he and Steve have season tickets to the Yankees, and the opening game is tonight.  Thor has been endlessly curious about Midgardian sports, and since he’s been hanging around more, Steve invites him along.

 

“This place got _huge_ ,” Bucky says as they take their seats.  He tried to sneak out with an old Dodgers cap on because he’s an asshole, but Steve noticed and tossed it into the depths of the garage, so he’s got his hair up in a bun now, which Thor has tried to copy on various occasions and ultimately just given up on.  They look quite the crew, with Steve in jeans, a Yankees jersey, and red Converse, Thor next to him in civilian clothes, though he’s such a big friggin bastard, Bucky’s not sure how anyone isn’t going to recognize him.  He looks comfortable in his civilian clothes, though, and Bucky nudges him when he sees hot dogs going by.

 

“ _Steve_.”

 

“Oh yeah, we’re going all out,” Steve says, and stands up to grab some.  The guy with the hot dogs is absolutely shell-shocked when he sees who’s approaching him, and he stammers so badly that Steve puts a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him down, and Bucky _giggles_ when his eyes bug wide.

 

“He’s got that face, you know,” Thor says as Bucky hides behind him, watching.

 

“America’s sweetheart,” Bucky says, “Trust me, I know.  I had to deal with that bullshit all the time.”

 

“Everyone was always this fond of him, then?” Thor asks.

 

Bucky straightens, nodding.  “Everyone in the army thought he was a right brat, which he was, but all the girls used to fall over themselves when we’d come back after a mission.  Hey, okay, this’ll be fun.  You remember how those guys get popcorn in the movies?”

 

“Ha, yes!” Thor booms before he hails down a woman walking past with popcorn.

 

Bucky is still laughing when Steve gets back.  “Dude!” he says when Steve sits down, “How many did you get?”

 

“Listen, I’m hungry,” Steve says, and sets them on Bucky’s lap since he’s in the middle.

 

They get interrupted no less than eighteen times before the game starts, and four times because someone recognizes Bucky before the rest of them, all four of which are so excited to meet him that Bucky just doesn’t even know what to do with his hands or his face or his _emotions_ , damn it.  Every single of those four times, Steve squeezes his shoulder and Thor beams at him like he’s the one that saved the world.

 

“You kind of did,” Steve says when Bucky says just that, “You were there with us against the Skrulls, and everyone saw you.  Buck, be honest, how many of them did you take out that would have otherwise seriously hurt one of us?”

 

“That’s not the—”

 

“It is the point,” Steve says, “You’re a hero now.”

 

“Welcome to the club,” Thor says, and then they’re all drowned out as the game starts.

 

Bucky’s been reading up on their history and watching old games enough that he knows who the players are, and he’s right there with Steve, yelling whenever there’s a call they don’t like or throwing popcorn everywhere when they jump up, hollering over a badass hit.  The people around them are almost more enamored with them than with the game, and thus, it’s no surprise that, when they go over to a bar after the game is over for food and drinks, several people follow them.

 

In the end, it’s one of the best nights he’s had in a long time, and Bucky thinks maybe, just maybe, life is starting to turn around for him.  And then, he bids Steve and Thor goodnight, heads into Tony’s suite, and is shocked to find him already in bed—already, like it isn’t past midnight—still up and working on his tablet.

 

“Hey,” Tony greets as he comes in, smiling through a hologram, “How was the game?”

 

And god, he just wants to ruin him.

 

“Amazing,” Bucky says, shucking off his jacket before he toes out of his shoes, crosses the room in great strides, and dips right through the hologram to kiss Tony.  As always, Tony reacts instantly, one hand still curled around his tablet as the other wraps around Bucky’s metal arm, holds on as Bucky cages him in.

 

“Mm, working,” Tony says against his mouth even as he pulls away, “One second, sorry.”  Tony tries to save his work, but Bucky’s mouth trails down to his jaw, where he scrapes his teeth lightly, and Tony emits a soft, bitten back noise.  “Bucky,” he whines, pushing at him, “Just—”

 

Bucky straightens away from him, fingers twisting the button on his jeans, and Tony watches him with wide eyes and a red mouth.  “Tony,” he reminds him, and Tony starts rambling incoherently, typing as fast as he can on his tablet before he tosses it aside, and Bucky pins him to the bed.  His legs part, inviting Bucky in, letting him trap him there as Bucky presses him down into the mattress, rolls his hips once just to see what it will do.

 

Tony moans, the sound tripping into Bucky’s mouth as one of Tony’s hands fists in his hair, pulls him impossibly closer.  Bucky pulls back, leaves Tony looking well-kissed as he reaches for the hem of his thermal, pulling it overhead.

 

“You should watch baseball more often,” Tony says, and Bucky laughs, stepping away from him to push down his jeans.

 

Tony scrambles to catch up, shucking off his shirt, though he’s not wearing any pants, and Bucky almost smiles when he leaves his briefs on.  Instead, he comes forward, laying metal fingers over the arc reactor.  “Thank you,” he says softly.

 

“For what?”

 

Bucky shakes his head.  He still can’t grasp how Tony doesn’t understand just how incredible he is, and he’s always trying to explain it, but instead, he just says, “Just thank you.  For _you_.”

 

Tony looks like he’s going to respond, so Bucky kisses him, hands tracing lines down his sides until he can reach his thighs, curling tight around.  The noise Tony makes when he moves him is enough to send him straight to hell begging for more, and really, he can’t be blamed when he presses closer to him, groaning as he feels how hard Tony is.

 

Tony’s head drops back as Bucky starts kissing down his throat, pausing to nibble on his collarbone before he’s kissing the edge of the reactor.  It shocks him a little, and he grins, biting at Tony’s ribs, making him squirm.  “Asshole, I’m ticklish,” he mutters, but then Bucky’s licks along his hip bone, and his fingers curl in Bucky’s hair again, pulling at him.

 

“Nope,” Bucky says, pulling back.  Tony releases his hair, looking down at him, watching with heavy, dark eyes as Bucky lifts onto his knees and loops his thumbs into Tony’s briefs before pulling them clean off.

 

“Wait, what?” Tony says as Bucky shimmies out of his own.

 

Bucky had intended to be suave as _fuck_ , to reignite that old Sergeant James Barnes charm, but his mouth goes dry when he looks down at Tony, his cock hard and leaning against his belly, the arc reactor casting a soft blue light over his chest, and his swollen mouth just asking to be kissed again, and he’s suddenly shy.

 

“That’s right,” Tony says, and he closes his eyes when Tony folds his arms beneath his head, “Take a good, long look, it’s all yours.”

 

And just like that, whatever shyness he had is gone because it’s _Tony_ , and he trusts him more than he trusts himself most days, and that’s enough for him.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says, laughing as he closes the distance between them again, kissing Tony to shut him up because he can just feel a nonsensical ramble making its way up.

 

Tony’s immediately distracted by all the _skin_ , and god, he’s missed this.  It’s been some time since he’s been with another man, particularly because Bruce refused repeatedly to sway to him, but he remembers, intimately, just how good this feels.  And now, with Bucky, it’s more than he thought possible, and he wants all of it, every second.

 

Bucky rolls when Tony pushes at him, drops onto his back and grins when Tony swings a leg over him, his cock fitting against the curve of Tony’s ass as Tony leans down and bites his bottom lip.  “I want you inside of me,” he says.

 

Bucky grabs at him, says, “How do you do things in this fancy dancy new world?” and smiles when Tony snorts and buries his face in Bucky’s neck, shoulders shaking with laughter.

 

“Alright, old man,” Tony says finally, reaching over toward his nightstand.  He produces a small bottle of lube, a condom, and a smirk.

 

“You’re not that much younger,” Bucky says, and well, Tony’s good at foul play.  All it takes is one lifted eyebrow from Tony, a well-placed finger, and Bucky’s taking back every rude thing he’s ever said to him.  “Give me that,” he says, grabbing the lube and coating his fingers.  He takes over, presses one finger deep inside, and groans when Tony gasps, one hand coming back to steady himself on Bucky’s knee.

 

He stretches him slowly, learns the shape of him, and soaks in every sound he makes, rutting up against Tony’s ass every time he clenches around his fingers.  “Take your sweet time, why don’t you,” Tony mutters, leaning away from his hand and down to kiss him.  Bucky lets his fingers come out with an obscene, wet sound, and then he can’t move fast enough.

 

He tips Tony onto his back, rolls on the condom, and then there it is again, those damning nerves.  Tony’s toes knead at his thigh as he pauses, and he asks the worst question ever, “Are you sure?”

 

“Of course I am,” Bucky says, brows drawing together in confusion, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder, swallows, and says, “I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

 

“You’re impossible,” Bucky says, leaning forward to kiss him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I’m holding you to that,” Tony says, “so please don’t hurt me.”

 

Bucky just kisses him again, shifting until he can press the head of his cock against Tony’s ass, nudging lightly.  Tony whines beneath him, trying to take him in, but Bucky curls metal fingers around his hip, and Tony stills.  When he pulls back to look at him, he’s looking at Bucky like _he’s_ a fucking demigod.

 

“I may definitely have a thing for the metal arm,” Tony says, and then Bucky eases his way inside, gasps and leans their temples together.

 

“Shit,” he says, trying to catch his breath.

 

“Jesus, _yeah_ ,” Tony mutters, lifting a hand to tangle in Bucky’s hair, which is coming loose from its bun.

 

“Nah, Jesus came back to life after three days,” Bucky says, and Tony giggles, leaning up to kiss Bucky to hide them.

 

He slides his metal arm beneath Tony’s knee, hooking his leg over his elbow as he slowly pulls out, setting an easy, careful rhythm that’s got Tony more sexually frustrated than he thinks is possible _while_ having sex.

 

“You’re going to kill me,” Tony says, his words a half moan as he arches up toward him, trying to take him in further.

 

“What do you want?” Bucky asks.

 

“Sadist,” Tony snaps at him, “I want you to _fuck me_.”

 

Bucky complies, curling his free hand around Tony’s hip as he thrusts harder, faster, until Tony’s reaching for him, nails scraping over his human shoulder and sliding up to bite into the nape of his neck.  Bucky groans, leans down and bites at Tony’s mouth until Tony’s swearing at him and kissing him, his tongue as quick as he talks.

 

He’s not going to last long, not after so long and not with _Tony_ , but he wants this to be good for him, too, and so he hikes his leg up over his shoulder, cool metal against his thigh, and Tony _keens_ , back lifting off the bed.  Bucky curls his arm around, winds his fingers around Tony’s cock, and strokes him slowly, off kilter with his hips, but he sees the second Tony realizes it’s his metal hand, and he just dissolves, moving in time with Bucky until he can’t find the place where he ends and Tony begins.

 

Bucky tips over first, and it’s Tony fault.  The mere sight of him, his cock disappearing between his metal fingers, his chest heaving and the arc reactor whirring a soft rhythm with his quick heart, his mouth open and his eyes fixed on him, and the _sounds_ he makes.

 

“ _God_ , Tony,” he says as he feels heat pool in his belly.

 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Tony moans, and Bucky crashes against him, forehead hitting his shoulder as his hips stagger out of rhythm, his hand slowing on Tony’s cock as he rides it out, listens to Tony’s dirty mouth as he claws at his back, close enough to the edge that he’s almost begging.

 

When he’s got his head on straight enough that he can see again, he brings Tony over into bliss with him, metal thumb pressing against the head of his cock so that Tony shouts and buckles, coming over his stomach.  When he comes down, he can’t quite catch his breath, and Bucky just kisses the corner of his mouth before going to find something to clean them up with.

 

Bucky frowns when he comes back in from the bathroom to find Tony still lying there, knuckles pressed against his sternum above the reactor.

 

“You okay?” he asks, wiping off his stomach.

 

“Mm,” Tony hums, offering him a small smile.

 

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky says, and Tony nods.

 

“In a minute,” he says, and his words shake a little.

 

Bucky disposes of the towel, throws on a pair of pants, and lets Tony know he’ll be back before he heads out of their suite and onto the communal floor.  He just wants water, and he knows Tony well enough to know he’s going to be hungry soon, so intends to grab some fruit and head back his way when Clint whistles as he’s opening the fridge.

 

Bucky doesn’t react, thinking it’s meant for someone else, until Clint thumps into one of the seats at the island and says, “Hot shit, Barnes.”

 

“What?” Bucky says, turning away from the fridge with two waters.

 

“Get some,” Clint says, still grinning even as Nat grabs him by the ear and hauls him away from the island.

 

“Don’t be an asshole,” she says, smacking him.

 

“What did you do to me?” Bucky asks as he comes back in.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Tony says, grinning.  He’s sitting up now, sheets pooled in his lap and back on his tablet.  “How bad is it?”  Bucky turns, and Tony just laughs.  “That only happens with guys, don’t ask why, I have no idea,” Tony says.

 

“Probably because you’re the one getting all the attention,” Bucky says, “I doubt it’s that way with women and you.”

 

“You make a fair point.  I’ll concede because you brought food.”

 

“Super soldier,” Bucky says.

 

“I forgot to eat dinner,” Tony says, and Bucky sighs at him.

 

They relax for a bit, Bucky finding something to watch while Tony tucks up under one of his arms, letting it drape across his chest while he rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and keeps working.  Eventually, they get up to find real food, and when sleep does come, well into the witching hour, Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever slept so well.

 

——

 

The next morning, he’s so worried about seeing Steve and him just _knowing_ until he walks into the kitchen to make breakfast, and Sharon’s there, wearing Steve’s shirt over a pair of leggings, and smiling uncontrollably.  Bucky jostles him obnoxiously at the stove, sighs when he sees Steve’s pitiful attempt at cooking, and promises to make breakfast for him and Sharon, as well.

 

It’s made all the better when Tony stumbles in still mostly asleep, but wearing Bucky’s thermal and nothing for pants, yells at the coffee maker when it pours Earl Grey into his mug, and then plops down at the island to face plant into his arms.

 

Thor shouts something about a no pants dance when he sees Tony, and then he’s not wearing pants anymore.  Steve starts to make a comment, stops, and points Thor in the right direction when he asks after jam.

 

He makes Tony and himself toast, which wakes Tony up immediately, and then they’re having a rather interesting breakfast between the five of them.

 

“So I’ve got this thing coming up,” Tony says as Steve is collecting their plates, “ _Pepper_ thinks it would be good press to have the Avengers there, and while I hate to agree with her after she’s spent the better part of an hour yelling at me about paperwork, I’m inclined to do just that.  It’s a tie affair.”

 

“Boring,” Sharon says, and Tony nods.

 

“Quite.  I’ll be giving a speech about—something, I can’t remember what it’s for.”

 

“How do, ah—” Bucky breaks off, frowning.  He hates these questions.

 

“I was hoping you would come as my date,” Tony saves him.  Bucky looks over at him unsurely, not daring to hope.  “If that’s okay with you.”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky says, “It’ll be—fun.”

 

“Not the right word,” Tony says before he gets up, going to make more coffee.  “I’ve got R&D shit to work on all day for this thing, but you’re more than welcome to join,” he says over his shoulder before he disappears.

 

“Or,” Thor says, “You and me.  Finally.”

 

“Yes, game on,” Bucky says, and races him to the living room where they load Sonic.

 

Downstairs, Tony slows as he’s coming into the lab because Rhodey is standing at one of his desks, idling peering at the boot he’s working on.  He nearly touches an exposed wire and burns himself, but Tony saves him by speaking, “Sneaking in again, honey bear?”

 

Rhodey doesn’t flinch, probably already knew he was there, but instead smiles something that doesn’t look like a smile before he turns to him.  “I’ve got some news,” he says.

 

“I never particularly like it when you have news,” Tony says, grabbing a nearby gun on his way over, dismantling it.

 

Steve’s shield is sitting on another desk, and he’s got blueprints for some arrows he and Clint got excited about the other night, the gun in his hand is Nat’s, and Bruce still won’t agree to the color of the pants he’s been designing, the bastard.

 

“I’m busy, as you can see,” he says, dropping the scattered pieces of Nat’s gun onto his main desk and stepping around Rhodey to drop into his chair, tapping at the desk to wake Friday and Jarvis up.

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says, and it’s not around a sigh like he’s accustomed to, which means it’s news that neither of them is going to enjoy, but not in that _sorry you have to dress up and play the part_ kind of way, more in a _sorry that someone’s out to kill you again_ kind of way, and Tony hates this kind of news.

 

“How many guesses do I get?” Tony says because why not make it a game.

 

“Fine,” Rhodey concedes earlier than he’d expected, “Three.”

 

“They’re appointing a new head of SHIELD, and _they_ are stamping a big ole red _no_ all over our extraction missions.”

 

“A truth, but not the right one,” Rhodey says, “How do you already know that?”

 

“What Captain Bright Eyes and the rest of the Backstreet Boys don’t know is that this _thing_ Pepper’s making us all go to will be, in part, an unveiling of the new director.  Do you know who it is?”

 

“Is that one of your guesses?” Rhodey asks.  Tony snorts.  “Also, it’s not Pepper.  Stop blaming her for everything.”

 

“Do you know how many times she’s been in here recently, shouting about paperwork?  _Paperwork_ , Rhodey, as if we don’t live in the future.”

 

“Unfortunately, your board is made up of old white men.”

 

“Maybe you should lead it.”

 

“What’s your second guess?”

 

Tony sighs obnoxiously, sends a new location and file off Steve’s way, and grabs the blueprints before he says, “This new director isn’t sure about Barnes’s status, and may want to look into it again.”

 

“Are you hacking SHIELD?” Rhodey accuses, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“Always,” Tony says, “It’s protocol.”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey sighs, and this time it’s the _why are you such a child_ one, and Tony’s just about had it with this game.

 

“Okay, third guess,” he says, just to get it out of the way, “They’re doing the Sokovia Accords shit again.”

 

“The Ten Rings have surfaced,” Rhodey says.

 

Tony inhales, and it sticks in his throat.  “A better phrase might be _made their allegiance with Hydra known_.”

 

“You knew?” Rhodey says.

 

“Of course I did,” Tony says, “How the hell else am I supposed to sleep at night?  Between their combined efforts, Friday and Jarvis always know what’s going on.  I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says, and it’s the forceful one this time, the one that means he’s not going to drop it.

 

Tony tosses the blueprints aside and turns to Rhodey.  “Friday’s running algorithms through the leaked files to find Hydra, Jarvis is scouring every network he can find for mentions of the Ten Rings, and I _still_ have to deal with this shit about a new director who thinks my fucking whatever he’s called is a danger to society when he’s busy playing video games from the 90s with a demigod.  I don’t want to talk about the Ten Rings.  I don’t want to talk about Hydra.  I have a fucking shield to balance, a boot that’s shorting out every ten seconds, and a gun that keeps jamming.  I’m out of fucking weapons manufacturing, and yet, here I am.  What more do you want from me?”

 

“I want you to have a plan,” Rhodey says, “If the Ten Rings are going to make a move—”

 

“Let them!  Let them fucking try.  For once in my life, Rhodey, if someone comes after me again, someone else is going to give a shit, and it’s gonna get ugly real quick for the Ten fucking Rings if someone’s got a price tag over my head again.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“I have a plan, Rhodey.  They’re called the Avengers.”  Rhodey looks genuinely confused, and really, Tony wants to take this moment and put it through a meat grinder.  “I trust those idiots,” Tony says, letting his tone soften, “And I know what’s going on, I know that they’ve made some absurd declaration of love and sidled right on up to Hydra, but so does Steve.”

 

“You—oh,” Rhodey says, though the confusion doesn’t dissipate, “I thought—”

 

“That I was trying to do this on my own again?” Tony guesses, standing up, “I’m too fucking old for this bullshit.  I found a grey fucking hair in my beard the other day.  _Grey_.”

 

“Are you dyeing it before this thing?” Rhodey asks, so Tony throws one of the gun pieces at him.  “I was just trying to make sure you were okay,” Rhodey says after he catches the piece, “I’m here for you, too, you know.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So if you need a character witness for your boyfriend.”

 

“Oh gross,” Tony says, “I hate labels.”  He leaves his desk, crossing over to Steve’s shield and fingering the edge of it, considering his options.

 

“She’s talking about extradition, Tony.  It will only be a matter of time after she’s been appointed head of SHIELD before she comes knocking.”

 

“Sounds like the plan is to succeed where Ross didn’t?  Does this mysterious she even know what she’s walking into?  Ross didn’t.  He was a shadow flitting through SHIELD, pretending that he was doing any good, and yet, Coulson’s still out there fighting the good fight or whatever.  And now what?  This new director is going to swoop in and save the day?  Send off a dangerous criminal to be tucked away in a foreign prison while she susses out the best of the worst and forces them to sign her little Accords?  Is her plan to snatch up Daisy and the other Spice Girls, claim they weren’t acting in SHIELD’s name, and preach about a rebooted SHIELD?  Make way for tomorrow?”  When Rhodey doesn’t respond, Tony turns, frowning at him.  “Dead on?” he says.

 

“Pretty much her plans exactly,” Rhodey says, “She’s scrapping the name and recreating from the ground up.”

 

“What about Coulson and his team?  What about the SHIELD agents that are still working under other agencies?  Sharon?  Hill?”

 

“Revamped was her word,” Rhodey says, “She wants to scatter them and give them desk jobs.”

 

“You’re fucking _kidding me_ ,” Tony snarls, “Does Pepper know about this?  Did she just not tell me?”

 

“No, and I’m not supposed to be telling you either.”

 

“What?  They were going to blindside us at the unveiling?  Let everyone clap and cheer and pledge their loyalty right before she lays out some bullshit new direction?  You know what,” Tony says, lifting Steve’s shield and plucking out the phone that’s beneath it, “Fuck this.”

 

“Tony, don’t do anything rash.”

 

He types quickly, sending it off to the group message he pretends to hate, _Avengers assemble.  Lab, now, it’s an emergency._

“Tony.”

 

“Either stay, or get out, Rhodey.  You’re either an Avenger, or you’re—against them.”

 

“Don’t make me choose,” Rhodey says, frowning, “Don’t do this.”

 

“This is Sokovia all over again,” Tony says, “Dropping a set of rules three days before they’re due to be signed, and even if I agreed with them, I’ve accepted that that was bullshit.  This unveiling is in _four days_ , and it was supposed to be primarily about the revamping of R&D, to discuss a future where SHIELD and SI could work together, but now, not a chance.  Stark Industries will not sign up with this horseshit.”

 

“What’s the emergency?” Bruce asks as he enters.

 

“What’s your play?” Rhodey asks.

 

“You’re not going to like it.”

 

“Will it be worse than where we’re headed?”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

Rhodey nods, and takes a seat.

 

Tony waits until everyone’s in the lab before he says, “Friday, kill power.  Jay, ghost protocol.”  The lab is pitched into darkness even as Jarvis filters blue light through it, brings them back up.  Tony points at Steve and says, “I’m gonna need you to shut your righteous mouth and just hear the whole thing.”

 

Steve nods, and really, Tony thinks that alone speaks volumes.  He’s not one for suspense and dramatic pauses, though, so he plunges on, “There’s a thing at Stark Industries in four days.  The programs will tell you that our talking point is combining the efforts of SI and SHIELD.  What it does not disclose is that the new director of SHIELD will be announced.  In the wake of Ross’s death, they’ve been debating on his replacement.  I still haven’t been able to access her name, but her goals are clear.  She means to disembowel SHIELD, reinstate the Sokovia Accords, separate everyone, and point us in a new direction.”

 

“Maybe this is a path SHIELD needs to take,” Steve says, holding up his hands when Tony glares at him, “Not opening my righteous mouth, Tony, just wondering if maybe we should be letting this happen.  I’m not signing the Accords without due time to understand them, but a new direction is what SHIELD needs.”

 

“Or,” Tony says, reaching over to tap his phone.  A hologram pops up next to him, a pixelated video call.  The person on the other line starts to take shape as Tony continues, “I’m not pleased, either, but the direction this new director wants to take SHIELD in sounds suspiciously similar to my father’s original business plan.  Out with the old, in with the new, and make anyone who doesn’t comply disappear.”

 

“Not to mention she hates the Avengers,” a familiar voice says before the video call finally rights itself, and the sharp profile of Nick Fury comes into view.

 

“No,” Steve says immediately, standing.

 

“You think the Accords were bad?” Rhodey says, “The new director will take your shield away, set you up with an apartment in Brooklyn, and tell you to get a job, Steve.  And if you don’t, she won’t bother with prison.  She does not want power in hands that are stronger than her own.”

 

“This is not a decision to be made lightly,” Steve says, “This is a coup.  More blood on our hands will not put anyone in favor of us.”

 

“Which is why I brought us down here,” Tony says, “Enough of others giving us direction.  What is the one we will take?”

 

Steve holds his gaze for a moment before he nods and sits down again.  “Let’s discuss it.”

 

——

 

After a two-hour long conversation, Tony disappears before Bucky has a chance to pull him aside, and is gone when he checks his bedroom.  Back in the garage and dressed to distracted in a handsome suit, Tony makes his way to Stark Industries, setting up a private conference with Pepper on his way.

 

He spends another two hours with her working out the finer details of the statement he’ll be making tomorrow regarding the reinstatement of Fury backed by the Avengers and SI.  Since he’s already there, she directs him to a board meeting, where he keeps his mouth shut unless necessary.

 

Tony’s got some finishing touches to put into R&D at the Tower, and he’s just given his okay to their contractor when Pepper spins him into an office, tells him she’s arranged three back to back interviews for potential candidates for R&D, and he’s forced to sit through them.

 

By the time he’s actually behind the wheel of his car again, Tony’s exhausted.  He doesn’t recall dialing Bucky, but suddenly, his voice is filtering out through the car.  “Hey, where are you?” he asks.

 

“On my way back from the Tower.”

 

“You disappeared.”

 

There’s something in Bucky’s tone that sounds accusatory, and really, he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.  “I had to bring Pepper up to speed, and then she stuck me with a meeting and R&D candidate interviews.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Bucky, what?” Tony says, “I’m tired.  Can we not dance around the bullshit and just cut to the problem?”

 

“I don’t want to do this on the phone.  I’ll see you when you get back,” he says, and actually hangs up.

 

Tony’s a little shocked, and definitely proud, when Friday alerts him that the line has indeed gone dead.  The drive back seems to take an eternity, and when he does finally pull into the private garage at the compound, it’s after driving past Bucky on the stretch of grass, tossing a ball with Grant.

 

Bucky watches him drive by, and waits for him to come back out, but the minutes tick by until he realizes Tony isn’t going to come to him.  Sighing, he calls Grant back and heads inside, taking the stairs instead to give himself time to clear his head.

 

It doesn’t work, and all he really wants to do is punch a hole through something.

 

He can hear Tony’s voice as soon as he reaches the communal floor.  “He’ll be here tomorrow evening, I think.  He had a few things left to tie up.”

 

“Loose ends?” Steve says.

 

Bucky turns the corner into the kitchen to find Tony sat at the island, fingers tapping out a rhythm against the reactor and Steve making tea.

 

Tony huffs an empty laugh.  “Does Fury ever have loose ends?”

 

“He usually just kills them off, I thought,” Bucky says, letting every ounce of disdain drip into his voice.  Tony nods in agreement, though he doesn’t move.  “Can we talk?” Bucky asks.

 

“Oh, are we doing this right now?” Tony says, not looking over at him, still tapping against the arc reactor.

 

“What is your problem today?” Bucky says, “I’m just asking if we can have a conversation.”

 

“This thing we’re doing right now,” Tony gestures between them, “that’s called having a conversation.  Person A says something, person B responds.  Who do you want to be, person A?”

 

“Tony,” Steve says, setting a mug in front of him.

 

“Oh good, we’re Tonying me now, too?  Thanks, _Howard_.  Except, right, he was never with the Tony program.  He liked _Anthony_ , a good, strong name.  He’d do that, though.  Anthony.  Nice and stern.  You’ve picked it up well.”

 

“Alright, asshole,” Bucky snaps, “Don’t take your shit out on us.”

 

“ _My_ shit?  _You’re_ the one they want to extradite.”  Now he looks up, and his expression is malicious, his eyes tired but fierce, and Bucky wonders if this is a side of him that only Steve usually sees.  “I’ve just spent the last _several_ hours trying to figure out a way to make everyone happy, keep you in this country and _out of jail_ , keep the Avengers on the playing field, and keep the world at large _safe_ from yet another tyrannical leader.”

 

“But you were so keen to buddy right up to General Ross, despite everything,” Bucky says, “I seem to recall it’s _your_ fault we lost our last director of SHIELD.”

 

“Kind of did us a favor there, yeah,” Tony says, “Considering he was working for Hydra.”

 

“So was your wonderful father,” Bucky says, metal fingers curling into a tight fist, “How can we be sure you’re not?”

 

“Alright,” Steve says loudly, “How about we just—”

 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Tony says, and his smile is awful, “Did you just accuse me of being Hydra?  This is coming from the man who spent 70 years doing their dirty work?  That’s almost poetic.”

 

“Whose weapons do you think I was wielding, you narcissistic bastard?” Bucky snarls, starting to turn away.

 

“Right, have fun running away,” Tony mutters before he sips his tea, “Always there to protect little Steve Rogers, but who gives a shit about the rest of the world, am I right?  As long as Cap is singing the right tune at the end of the day, it’s—”

 

“Bucky!” Steve shouts.

 

It’s too late.

 

Bucky’s fist connects with Tony’s jaw, sending him sprawling off of the chair and scrambling to maintain his footing.  He looks over at Bucky with a chaotic grin, and then lunges at him.

 

It doesn’t last long.  Bucky is faster, stronger, and better trained than Tony, and he knows his weaknesses, so he starts to pick at them until one strong arm wraps around him, the other shoving Tony away.  Steve hauls him back, yelling when Tony tries to advance again, and he puts the island between them, as well as himself.

 

“Fuck, guys,” Steve says, “What the hell?”

 

“He wants to appoint _Fury_ as director of SHIELD.  He’s just as dangerous as Ross,” Bucky says, “What makes you think he isn’t going to want the same thing for me?”

 

“At least he isn’t Hydra,” Tony says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood across his lips, “Do you honestly not think that I already discussed you with Fury?”

 

“What, and you couldn’t have told me any of this beforehand?” Bucky says, “Tony, I’m your—”

 

“Oh, don’t say it,” Tony says, “That is— _god_ , the worst of the words.”

 

“What, _boyfriend_?  Because I wasn’t gonna fucking go there,” Bucky says.

 

“Really?” Tony snaps, “Then what?”

 

“Partner, you idiot.  I trust you.”

 

Tony blinks, his expression dropping away for a fraction of a second before he’s frowning, and there’s this deep, unknowing uncertainty that threatens to overwhelm him.

 

“Well,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “I trust _ed_ you.”

 

“Bucky—”

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Bucky says it like he’s tossing something away before he’s gone, turning out of the kitchen.  He doesn’t realize he’s in Tony’s room until he’s halfway into the bathroom, but just swears loudly as he continues toward the shower.

 

Tony’s not there when he gets out, and there’s no evidence that he’s been by.  He assumes he’s down in the lab, hiding away, and it makes Bucky furious, that he doesn’t give a shit about how terrified he is.  He’s prowling before he can stop himself, stalking back and forth across the room until, without warning, there’s a knock on the door.

 

Bucky pauses, intending to ignore it, when Tony says, “Can I come in?”

 

He blinks, unsure of how to proceed.  He used to just punch Steve’s shoulder and call him a few meaningless names, and then they’d drink and be fine again.  This feels different, though.

 

Bucky opens the door, and there’s Tony, still in his suit, but with his tie hanging loose and his shirt open, the reactor bright in his chest.  He looks like he’s in pain, or maybe just exhausted, but it’s an awful color on him, and Bucky hates that some of it is his fault.

 

“That was—a low moment,” he says, not looking away from Bucky, “I hate everything I said to you.  I’m just—fuck, I’m scared.”

 

He thinks, maybe, that Tony’s never admitted that out loud to someone without being forced into it, but he can’t buckle now, so he says, “And you think I’m not?”

 

“I know you are,” Tony says, “You have every right to be, and I’m trying not to be afraid, too, but I can’t—I _can’t_ , Bucky.”

 

Bucky shifts his weight between feet, nervous, before he says, “I think I like it better when you call me James.”

 

“Bucky is a stupid ass nickname,” Tony says, and steps over the threshold to kiss him.

 

“I’m still mad at you,” Bucky says as he pulls Tony into the room with him.

 

“I’m always mad at me,” Tony agrees.

 

“Stop that,” Bucky says, and kisses him before he can respond, fingers twisting the buttons on Tony’s shirt until he can untuck it from his pants and let it drop to the floor.  He releases him even as he starts undoing his pants and says, “How’s this?  You take a shower, I’ll grab some ice cream, and we’ll hash this out over double dark chocolate gelato.”

 

“I want chips,” Tony says even as he heads for the bathroom.

 

“What kind?”

 

“You’ll figure it out.”  And then he’s gone, talking to Jarvis about nothing at all.  Bucky knows it’s just to distract him from his own mind, but it still feels a bit like he’s trying to get away from this conversation.

 

Bucky sighs, but leaves him, and Steve is still in the kitchen when he gets there, though Wanda has joined him.  “Hey,” Steve says as he comes in, “Everything good?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Just tensions running high.”

 

“Understandable,” Wanda says, “This unveiling should be interesting.”

 

“Still, he shouldn’t have said all that,” Steve says.

 

“Steve, don’t,” Bucky says, opening the freezer.

 

He finds the gelato easily enough, surprised that it’s still there, and when he sets it on the counter, Steve does, “I’m just saying, this isn’t exactly a surprise.  Tony’s got a short fuse.”

 

“And you don’t?” Bucky counters, opening the pantry and frowning at it.  There are about a dozen different kinds of chips, and he’s about to give up when he spots a bag with a clip on top, salt and vinegar, and he just _knows_.  Of course he’d like something bizarre.

 

When he turns back, chips and gelato in hand, Steve’s got this knowing look on that even Wanda seems to disapprove of.  Instead of rising to his bait, though, Bucky takes his things back to Tony, who is still in the shower when he gets back.

 

He means to just poke his head in to see if he’s almost done, but then he sees Tony tucked into the corner of the shower, and he sighs, stripping out of his clothes and going to join him.  “What’s going on?” he asks as he curls around Tony, pressing his forehead to his shoulder.

 

Tony taps a quick, staggering rhythm against the reactor.  “Can’t breathe,” he whispers.

 

Bucky closes his eyes and lets his breaths be audible, listens to his inhale war with the water, his exhale trapped between them.  He continues this until Tony drops his head back, thudding against the glass wall.

 

“Is something wrong?” Bucky asks.

 

“Just—life.”

 

Bucky laughs, this broken sound, and nods before he gets up, helping Tony to his feet with him.  There’s something intimate in the way Tony doesn’t try to make a pass at him, instead dries off, kisses Bucky’s bare shoulder, and climbs into bed naked.  “Jarvis, any idea what Tony’s favorite sitcom is?” he asks while still in the bathroom.

 

“Mister Stark has shown preference toward _Bob’s Burgers_ , sir.”

 

“Can you put that on, please?”

 

He leans against the doorway, watching Tony grin as he grabs the bag of chips and then make a delighted sound when the show starts playing.  “You coming?” he calls as he gets comfortable.

 

Their conversation can wait until morning, Bucky decides.  For now, he’s content to feel Tony’s laugh thrum through his body with their shoulders pressed together and one of his legs tucked around Bucky’s.

 

——

 

Tony is barely around the days leading up to the event.  He’s there that first morning, when he and Bucky talk over breakfast, but then he’s gone, in and out of Stark Industries, as well as countless meetings with Steve and Fury.

 

Bucky, on the advice of the PR team at SI, stays at the compound until the event.  And thus, suddenly, he’s left with the rest of the Avengers without the two people he usually uses as his buffer.  Regardless, he makes the most of it, teaching Thor how to play pool, watching movies with Clint in the evening, and even coercing Nat into making old Russian dishes with him.  When Peter comes by, he asks Bucky to spar, and he ends up having a fantastic afternoon with him.  He sits in on some of Betty’s experiments, bakes cookies with Bruce when they’re both up and feeling mentally unruly one night, and forces Sam to go on walks with him and Grant.  The night before the event, he’s unable to sleep, and he finds Wanda in the communal living room, reading the same page over and over again, and he sits up with her, asking her countless questions that she won’t answer until she finally gives in and talks to him.

 

And then, quite without warning, they’re an hour out from the unveiling of the new director of SHIELD and subsequent coup d’état of the Avengers.

 

“Sam tells me you’ve been pacing,” Tony says as Bucky comes into the lab.

 

“You realize we have to leave in forty minutes, right?” Bucky says, smiling fondly at his grease-smeared face.

 

“I work better under pressure,” Tony says, and then waves a wrench at him, “Come here.”

 

Bucky obeys, stopping at his elbow as he looks down into the car.  “Looks fine,” he says after a few moments.

 

“I know,” Tony says and turns on the spot, wrench clattering to the ground as he fists one hand in Bucky’s shirt and the other in his hair, kissing him.

 

Bucky responds like he’s a man starved of touch, rucking up Tony’s shirt to wrap metal fingers around his side, digging in and holding on until he can feel the dip between his ribs.  Tony lets out a soft, low noise, stepping out one of his feet and tugging Bucky in toward him, leaving his mouth to kiss a line down his throat.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky says as Tony starts to bite him, and he feels Tony’s grin against his skin a second before he fists a hand in his hair and tugs, tipping Tony’s head back.

 

“Make me,” Tony says.

 

Bucky kisses him again, fingers curled tightly in his hair, holding him in place, even as his metal fingers twist the button on Tony’s jeans.  When he releases his mouth, his eyes are wide and excited, and Bucky kisses the corner of his parted lips before he asks, “Anyone else in the lab?”

 

“No, why— _well_.”

 

Bucky drops to his knees, taking Tony’s jeans with him.  He checks his watch—thirty-eight minutes until they have to leave—and grins as Tony whines softly when he kisses his thigh.  He doesn’t have time to tease him, though, and so curls his tongue around the head of Tony’s dick, humming as Tony’s fingers thread through his hair.  He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s sucking lightly at the head, and Tony taps his jaw.  He looks up, and Tony swears eloquently, just staring at him.

 

“Hair tie,” he finally manages to say, and Bucky lifts his right arm, lets Tony snap the tie off and in place around a messy, half-assed bun.  His hand stays there, though, fingers curling around Bucky’s jaw, and he lets out this low, beautiful moan as Bucky takes him in further, lets Tony’s cock press against his cheek and his fanning fingers.

 

“Jesus fucking H _Christ_ ,” Tony says.

 

Bucky doesn’t give him any warning before he’s moving, jaw shifting as he swallows him down and pulls back, flat of his tongue rubbing over the head of his cock until Tony’s curling his other hand around the car, holding himself steady.

 

Bucky pulls off slowly, grins when Tony emits a noise of frustration and looks down at him, but it tapers off into something wrecked as he watches Bucky shove down his sweats enough to fist a hand around his own cock, moving in slow strokes as he watches Tony’s face.  “Yeah, fuck this,” Tony says suddenly, and then he starts to move when Bucky wraps metal fingers around his hip and holds him there.  “Okay, _fuck_.”

 

“I’m not done with you yet,” Bucky says, kissing his thigh again before he takes his dick back in his mouth, sucks him in earnest as he jerks himself.  “ _Fuck_ , James,” he groans, hand curling around his jaw again, and Bucky just takes him in further, pulls off when he feels his cock nudge at the back of his throat.  Tony moans outright, low and long, and Bucky echoes him, pulling back a little when Tony’s hips twitch forward.

 

He can feel his own orgasm fast approaching, and he slides his hand down, tightens around the base of his cock, groans around Tony’s dick at how badly he wants to be inside of him, and then Tony’s breaking apart.  “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

 

“Sir, Captain Rogers is approaching,” Friday says evenly.

 

“Fuck—black the— _shit_ —glass.”

 

Bucky swallows him down as far as he can and then pulls back, tongue passing over the head again as he shifts his hand from hip to cock, stroking Tony as he sucks until Tony nails are scraping over his jaw, and he comes into his mouth, head dropping back and baring his throat as he bites his lip to muffle his shout.

 

Bucky licks him clean, and assumes Tony will just ride his orgasm out, but then he drops to his knees, shoves Bucky onto his back, and kisses him, tongue fast and hot and _dirty_ as he fists a hand over Bucky’s cock and trips him right over the edge.

 

Tony’s forehead drops to his shoulder as Bucky tries to catch his breath beneath him.  “That was fucking _amazing_ ,” Tony mumbles.

 

Steve chooses that moment to knock loudly on the door.  “Tony, let’s go!  We have to leave in twenty minutes!”

 

Tony lifts his head and calls out, his voice pitching into a high, obnoxious octave, “Coming, darling!”  Bucky just laughs and leans up to kiss him.

 

“Yo Fri, get rid of all that from the cameras, yeah?”

 

“You were recording that?” Bucky says as Tony gets up.

 

“You kind of ambushed me,” Tony says, holding out a hand that Bucky takes, letting Tony haul him upright, “I would have asked her beforehand, but then you were already on your knees.”

 

“Come on,” Bucky says, pulling up his sweats, “Steve’s gonna give us hell if we’re late.”

 

They’re not, thankfully.  Steve’s got this look like he wants to say something when they both leave the lab, and he’s sure it’s written all over his face what they just did when he hurries by him.  They shower and dress together, moving easily around one another until Bucky’s the one telling Steve to hurry up, and Tony just cackles as he opens the door to one of his older cars.

 

This is it, he knows.  This is how the world and the future of SHIELD will see him, and he’s not sure he could possibly be any luckier.  He gets in opposite Tony, and they’re the first ones to arrive.  Steve had tried to argue against this, thought it might be better if they came last or even in the middle, to lessen the gossip, but, as Tony’s the main presenter, he can’t be seen arriving _after_ anyone.

 

And thus, Bucky’s left watching Tony get out of the car, already performing.  He’s got a smile on that doesn’t reach his eyes, shoulders forced down beneath the smooth line of his suit, and a perfect gait that belies how nervous Bucky knows he is.  He tosses his keys to a valet and walks around the front of the car, lifting a hand in a wave.

 

“Mister Stark!  Who is your date tonight?” someone calls out from the dozen or so flashing cameras and outstretched microphones.

 

Tony opens the passenger side door with ease, though Bucky sees him take a slow breath as he steps away, pulling the door with him.  He’s wearing grey with a dark, wine-colored shirt, three pieces and fitting him perfectly.  Bucky, however, had opted for all black with a skinny tie, his hair pulled out of his face in a bun, and it almost feels strange, stepping out under the public eye looking for all the world like he’s a perfectly well to-do citizen.

 

As he steps out of the car, the metal fingers shimmer under the lights, and he looks over at Tony, waiting.  “Ready?” Tony says, and he nods, smiling as his metal hand finds Tony’s lower back, settles there for a moment before they head forward.

 

“One photo op for the press, and then we’re inside,” he says under his breath as they approach the stairs, “I’ll have to schmooze later, answer questions about what went down, but just this for now.”

  
Bucky already knew this was coming, and so he puts on his best smile as Tony turns, arm sliding around Bucky’s waist discreetly.  “Oh look!” Tony exclaims after barely a second, and moves as soon as the press’s attention has been distracted by Steve arriving.

 

Once inside, he says, “I need a drink, or five,” and goes off in the direction of the open bar.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” an unfamiliar voice says almost as soon as Tony is out of earshot, and Bucky tries for a smile, shaking the hand that’s offered him.  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” the man in front of him says, and then it occurs to Bucky that he’s a marine.  He’s so used to seeing Steve’s dress blues that it almost doesn’t dawn on him.

 

“The honor is mine, sergeant major,” Bucky says.

 

Though it’s been a while since he’s had to read insignias, he assumes he’s gotten it right by the major’s easy smile.  “Can you spare a second?”

 

“Of course,” Bucky says, and lets himself be led away.

 

The major’s friends all grew up on the Cap comics, and Bucky grins as he answers their questions, and possibly tells one mildly embarrassing story about one of their missions that Steve will vehemently deny later.

 

When Tony finds him, he’s starting to believe that everything is going to be okay.  A few of the major’s friends go a little cold when Tony drops by, but then he’s stealing him, and he doesn’t have a moment to figure it out until Tony says, “He’s just pissed you’re dating a man,” and Bucky sighs.

 

Tony introduces him to approximately 75 different people, all of whom Bucky can remember their names, eye color, and any outstanding facial features.  He hates that he still scans the crowd and gathers intel, but it happens so subconsciously that by the time he realizes he’s rechecked the exits for a fourth time in the last hour, he doesn’t care anymore.

 

When he says as much to Nat at the bar, she says, “I’d hope you were.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“You and me, kid, we’ll never stop, and that’s why we’re still alive.”

 

Bucky decides this is a better approach to the issue at hand, and so he lets it happen, lets himself step closer to Tony when he sees someone eyeing him, or lets himself switch his drink to his metal hand whenever he sees someone reaching for something beneath their jacket.  It’s never a weapon, and no one seems specifically malicious toward Tony, but he feels better not constantly trying to stamp out that part of him.

 

The real fun comes after Tony’s rousing speech about bringing SHIELD and Stark Industries together, about the impending expansion of Research & Development, and about the new direction SI is looking toward, a better tomorrow.

 

He’s just wrapping up, and is due to introduce one of the World Council members, when he winks at Steve and switches gears.  “A better tomorrow,” he says, “In Howard’s words, make way for tomorrow.  He was always looking ahead.  A futurist, as we would have classified him today.  He was always searching for the next big thing.  A bit unrealistic, but he lived in a dream world most of the time.  Now, as I stand before you, talking about the incredible things SI’s R&D department is approaching, I’ve been instructed to look behind instead of ahead.  I am to step aside and welcome in old beliefs and systems that brought us to this very moment today, that let the world appoint someone like General Ross as director of SHIELD.  Instead, I offer you an old dog with new tricks.”

 

Before anyone can stop him, Tony steps aside, and the doors at the front of the hall open, admitting Nick Fury.

 

In the end, no one dies.  No one gets seriously injured, either, which Bucky thought might be a highly likely outcome of tonight.  Someone does take a swing at Tony, but Steve’s there to intervene, who then makes it clear that this is where the Avengers stand.  In the end, things work out.  Bucky can tell by Nat’s face that she thought this would end in blood, as well, and yet, somehow they walk away with a meeting scheduled the following morning to discuss the direction of SHIELD.

 

“Food,” is the first thing Tony says when they’re finally back out under the stars.

 

“A _lot_ of food,” Thor agrees, and that’s how they end up getting pizza at eleven at night in the middle of Manhattan.

 

——

 

It’s bumpy, at first.

 

Steve and Tony spend more time yelling than they probably ever have, though sometimes, they get to combine their efforts and just yell at the board or Fury or whomever is trying to set fire to their carefully laid plans.

 

In the end, though, it works out.

 

Bucky stands trial _yet again_ , though Steve and Fury both swear up and down it’s just for the public image.  He’s asked a lot of the same questions, forced to recount what he can, and then forced to listen to what he can’t, and all of it is done with Grant at his side, exuding calm and shifting closer whenever Bucky feels like he might implode.  He explains, to the best of his ability, what Hydra put him through, and then there’s a long line of character witnesses that he wasn’t expecting.  He thought Steve might take the stand, and possibly Tony, and really, he thinks it’s not so unlikely that the rest of the Avengers speak for him, as well.  The thing is, though, Betty, Jane, and Sharon also come, putting their respective titles and credentials on the line, and it’s almost more than Bucky is prepared to handle.

 

But after, when he’s declared free again, it really feels like it this time.  When he steps outside, the air feels different, and when he says as much, Tony’s feeling like an asshole, “Yeah, it’s not as cold as it was yesterday.”

 

Bucky punches him in the shoulder, but he’s grinning.

 

He loves watching New York transform from winter into spring, and it’s made all the better by the fact that he feels safer going out into the city.  He takes Grant with him everywhere, and often one of the other Avengers, as well.

 

Steve has the worst sweet tooth in the world, so they’re always stopping at bakeries until Bucky decides one night when they’re both up and sparring to chase away their nightmares that a more productive route would be to teach Steve to bake.  Somehow, Steve’s a fucking natural, and though he can’t boil an egg, his first batch of brownies might actually kill someone, they’re so good.

 

Clint knows where all of the good local bookstores are, and they spend hours combing through the scifi section and always surfacing with more books than they need.  They start to get lunch every couple of weeks to discuss the books that they’re reading, and without any real decision to do so, they start reading the same books and form their own two-person book club.

 

Nat loves to try new foods, and Bruce is always game for something interesting, so the three of them frequent strange corners of New York.  They once drove two and a half hours to upstate New York just to try this new Mongolian place, but the food had been incredible, and though Bucky was nervous about the long ride, Nat had turned on Britney Spears loud enough to rattle the windows.  On the way home, they were all singing.

 

Wanda’s always finding these art fairs and little markets to lose her entire day wandering about, and Bucky goes along one time without expecting much and comes back with little things for everyone.  Steve still talks about the sugar cookies he brought back six weeks after the fact, and so they make a thing out of it.  Every time Wanda finds some interesting event, Bucky follows her blindly, and that’s probably why they end up at a gay bar one time while Wanda just grins devilishly.

 

Thor is the most fun.  Bucky always feels disconnected from the world in a way Steve doesn’t quite grasp.  He hasn’t exactly been frozen for 70 years, and so he knows about a lot of the technological advances and the general way of the world when he comes back, and so he can’t share a lot of that fumbling around with Steve.  Thor, however, seems to be right on the same plane as him, knowing just enough to get by, but curious about all the rest.  They go to museums, attend readings, and there was that one time that Bucky made an offhand comment about wanting to go to a fucking _cowboy museum_ in Texas, and suddenly, Thor was asking him when he was free.

 

He always feels like Tony accompanies him the most and the least, though.  He’s usually busy during the day, and they often get takeaway at night if they’re not cooking, but even then, they sit up on the roof, pointing out different constellations and talking about their day.  Sometimes, when he’s been on a three-day binge, Bucky will pick a country, and they’ll fly out for an extravagant dinner or an afternoon at the park.  When they do go out into New York, Tony holds his hand while they’re waiting for coffee, or he tags along with him to one of Bruce’s lectures and just watches in amazement at the notes he takes, or, on rare occasions, they wander Brooklyn together, and Bucky tells him about his life before.

 

It’s not until summer’s just around the corner that he realizes he’s been dating Tony for almost half a year, and when he expects that to scare him, he’s immensely relieved when it just feels like every other day the next time he sees him.  He thinks, maybe, that he’s where he’s supposed to be, finally.

 

——

 

Every time he has that thought, that maybe things are looking up, Bucky’s reminded that good things don’t happen to villains like him.

 

Bucky doesn’t remember the hours between Tony saying his name like it’s some profound gift, arc reactor glowing blue between them as Bucky had bruised his collarbone with his teeth and right now, coming to wedged between two cabinets, the trash barrel kicked clean across the room.  He pretends he doesn’t know why he keeps returning to this space, but he knows, really, that it’s because it’s tight, and the sounds of the kitchen snap out of existence when he’s between the two walls, which he has access to hitting, as well.

 

Grant isn’t there, not after the last time this happened.  He hadn’t hurt him, but he’d come close, and now, he sleeps with Steve.

 

He’s only Bucky for about forty seconds, enough time to process where he is and _why_ he is, and then he’s gone again, lost somewhere in Russia—it’s always _fucking Russia_ —images floating by, dismantled and obscure, until one finally settles.

 

He’s in a chair, arms and legs strapped down, and someone is tightening a restraint around his midsection.

 

He’s so young.

 

“Please don’t,” he says, his voice hoarse from screaming and scared for what’s coming next.  He’s never been here before, never been forced into this contraption and told to behave.

 

“But this is the fun part,” Zola says, his voice thick and charming, “Soon, you won’t even know your own name.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, “No, _stop_.”

 

There’s a smear of batter from those corn muffins Steve was working on yesterday across the floor by the oven.

 

Bucky holds onto that, stares at it and forces himself to remember where he’d been—elbows leaned into the countertop of the island as he’d grinned and stuck a finger inside the batter, _just for a taste, Steve, come on_ , and Steve had yanked it away, clattering his spatula to the ground, but he was grinning, and god, Bucky misses that grin, misses it like he hasn’t seen it in _years_ , and maybe he hasn’t, maybe he’s still—

 

“Your dear friend Captain Rogers is so very sad about your capture,” Zola continues, smiling pleasantly when the soldier strapping him down finishes and steps away.

 

“Please,” Bucky begs, “What are you doing?  What is—what _is_ that?”  He stares, horrified, as this giant metal _thing_ starts dropping down from the ceiling.

 

“We are going to erase you, James Barnes,” Zola says, “Think of his face, one last time, and then forget it.”

 

“No!” Bucky screams, jerking in his chair, trying to get away, escape, _anything_.

 

The kitchen is flooded in sharp, too bright light.  Bucky shrinks back, eyes dropping behind his arm as he tries to hide from the needle Zola is tapping into his arm.  Someone is humming, and the sound of the fridge door opening shatters through his silence.

 

Bucky lifts his head, peering over his arm, and frowns when he can’t make out who it is until a block of sliced deli cheese is set on the island, and he exhales softly.  “Clint,” he says because whenever Clint can’t sleep, he makes grilled cheese.

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he tells himself, over and over and over again, his voice cracking at the edges from too much use, from too much disuse, from too much of everything, and then, “32557038.  Sergeant James Buchanan—”

 

There’s a commotion outside.  He wonders if this is just another test, just another moment he’s going to have to trudge through and pretend he has no idea who he is.  He understands, now, what they’re doing, and though it’s only been a few weeks, he can feel something cold starting to slide into his consciousness, trying to take over.

 

“Barnes,” he continues because he will _not_ lose himself, “32557—”

 

“Bucky?” a too familiar voice says, his voice lilting up in surprise.

 

“Barnes,” Clint says, and Bucky startles when he’s right there, right in front of him, crouched far enough away that he’s out of range but close enough that Bucky needs him not to be.  “Okay,” Clint says, backing up a little when he sees Bucky’s expression.  His hands lift, and Bucky pulls himself back to watch his fingers move fluidly through the air.  _How can I help?_

_Make it stop_ , Bucky tells him.

 

Clint frowns, this deep, broken thing, and sits down, crossing his legs.  _Where are you?_ he asks.

 

Bucky forgets to keep himself grounded as he tells Clint, and suddenly, he’s trailing off, words mumbling into silence as he watches someone familiar and unfamiliar all at once yank at his bindings.  “Bucky,” he says urgently, “It’s okay.  It’s me.  It’s Steve.”

 

“Steve?” he asks uncertainly.

 

There’s no way.  He remembers Steve, tiny little Steve, could fit him under his arm like he was a miniature adult, used to wrestle him for the last— _only_ —cookie, used to kiss his bloody knuckles and sigh fondly at him.

 

“Hey.”  God, that’s Steve’s voice, and Bucky doesn’t know which one it is.  “Clint, what’s—shit, Buck, are you okay?”

 

Bucky looks up, sees Steve in all his glory, helmet hanging sideways off his head and straps banging against his jaw.  He wants to tell him, _you’re supposed to buckle them, you goddamn idiot, safety first_ , but what he says instead is, “I thought you were smaller.”

 

He’s back in the kitchen too quick, too soon, but he was already halfway there, and he realizes he’s spoken aloud as he watches Steve go sheet white, this memory that is always haunting him but different, watching Bucky tumble from a train, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he fists them into his pants as he buries his face in his thighs.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” he hears Clint hiss, and Steve stops moving, “Bucky, can you look at me, please?”

 

Bucky shakes his head, feels the wood next to him, and presses against it, tries to use it to come back, to reconnect.

 

On the train, Zola said _fire_ , and he forced his weapon in a direction that wasn’t Steve while that coldness crept in at the edges of his consciousness, a voice that wanted to obey.

 

He doesn’t register jerking out from between the cabinets until he sees Clint on his feet, stance defensive, and Steve behind him, looking like he doesn’t know him.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he snaps.

 

Ice fills his veins.

 

He doesn’t remember any of it.  After—after Clint smashes his head off of the island and Steve knocks him flat to the ground, pinning him there; after Nat whips around the corner, gun out and not breathing; after Clint outright laughs when Steve asks him for help, says, “Dude, he’s a fucking beast,” but still comes over to help him lift an unconscious Bucky from the ground; after Nat refuses to lower her guard and instead stands at the corner of the room, near the exit, watching them carefully—after it all, it comes down to this.

 

Clint drops a plate with grilled cheeses loudly onto the coffee table, and Bucky’s shoulders jump from where he’s curled into the corner of the sofa, trying to disappear.  Steve comes in after him carrying tomato soup, and there’s this awful moment where the three of them sit in silence, not eating, until Clint says, “Oh, come off it, Nat, he didn’t mean it.”

 

“I did,” Bucky whispers at the same time Nat says, “ _He_ might not have,” and jerks her chin toward him.

 

“Alright,” Steve says, shaking his head, like he’s trying to get rid of the cobwebs, the same ones plaguing Bucky.  “Are you hungry?” he asks before he drops onto the floor, sitting near the coffee table.  Bucky flinches when Grant sits next to him; he hadn’t even seen him come in.

 

“I’m fucking starving,” Clint says, and flops onto the same sofa as Bucky, though at the other end.

 

Bucky watches them eat, Steve methodically, like he thinks it might help to do something normal, and Clint like he always does, like he doesn’t know where his next meal might be coming from.  Bucky recognizes that habit, was forced to shuck it off when he was— _not him_.  The Winter Soldier never cared about food.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asks before he tries to scoot closer.  Bucky flinches, and though he wants to close his eyes, wants to banish these images, he needs to keep everyone within his sights.

 

“I have that dream sometimes, too,” Steve tries to change tactics, ladling out some soup into a bowl.  “It’s good,” he continues after a sip, looking imploringly at Bucky, who won’t look away from Steve’s hands, watching for any tension there.

 

“Alright, Jesus fuck,” Clint says before he reaches forward, taking a tablet from the coffee table.  He types with a sandwich hanging out of his mouth, and Nat sighs loudly at him before she finally turns away and leaves, going back into the kitchen.

 

Two minutes later, Tony comes in like a house on fire.

 

“What’s going on?  What happened?  Who are we fighting?  Why is the dog here?”

 

He’s halfway into this long sleeve Led Zeppelin shirt that Bucky just loves on him, that’s soft and old and loose on him.  Bucky relaxes a little, head shifting to rest his temple against his knee as he looks over at him.

 

Tony understands immediately, and that unleashes another wave of relief.  “Hey,” he says, approaching at a normal pace, not letting anything like nervousness or insecurity rise up in Bucky before he’s sitting, looping one arm around his shoulders, the other hand curling around his ankle.  “You’re here,” Tony tells him, firmly, before he drops a kiss in the middle of Bucky’s forehead.

 

“Third eye vibes,” Bucky mumbles when he leans back.

 

Tony smiles, this thing that lights up his face as he nods.  “Good vibes and all that jazz,” he says, “Listen, Barton tells me these sandwiches are legendary.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, and unfolds a little, legs coming down to cross instead of press against him, and when he next glances at Steve, still making sure he hasn’t moved closer, he’s doing his best, and failing miserably, at hiding his anger.  Grant is telling, though, half his body looped under Steve’s arm and resting on his lap.

 

Between the four of them, they demolish the absurd amount of grilled cheeses that Clint made, as well as all the soup, and when Steve gets up to put away some of the dishes, Bucky looks over and says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Clint says, waving a hand dismissively at him, “Didn’t break anything, and now I’ve got a cool story for one of my bruises besides Nat beat the shit out of me in a fight.  Hey,” he adds when Bucky tries to speak, “Not a chance, man.  We all live in this house.  We all get it.  You weren’t all here, and I’m guessing Rogers didn’t help?”

 

“He usually doesn’t,” Tony mutters.

 

Bucky pinches his thigh, and Tony whines loudly.  “Not when it’s—that,” Bucky says, “He reminds me of everything.”

 

Tony looks up, and starts speaking when he sees Steve coming back into the living room, “What time is it?  Anyone awake in this place?”

 

“It is 4AM, sir,” Friday says patiently.

 

“Mother hubbard, that’s too early, come on.”  He gets up, fingers tangling with Bucky’s even as he moves, taking him with him, and if it was anyone else, Bucky thinks he might have resisted, might have glued himself to that sofa until they’d all given up on him and left so he could disappear, but it’s _Tony_ , so he follows him.  “Friday, be a dear,” he says as he walks out, leading Bucky, not giving him the opportunity to run for cover, and he only continues speaking when they’re heading back toward their floor, “If James is okay with it, please wake me whenever he wakes during the night.”

 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers.

 

“Of course, sir,” Friday says.

 

Back in their room, Tony strips out of his pants, keeping the shirt as he climbs back into bed and turns his back to Bucky, who forces himself to take a slow, deep breath before he gets in opposite Tony, leaving space between them.

 

“Is that how this works?” Tony says, indicating the space.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky says.

 

Tony smiles, this gentle thing that threatens to shatter the last of the strength Bucky has.  “It’s okay, you know,” Tony says, and Bucky frowns.

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Not _that_ ,” Tony says, “Shit, you clocked Clint pretty hard by the looks of it, and Steve’s a righteous wounded animal no matter what happens, but this, right now, what you won’t let happen, _it’s okay_.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, closing his eyes, _finally_ , “It’s not.”

 

“Why, because some Hydra goon roughed you up once and said _big men don’t cry_?”

 

Bucky wants to fucking strangle him.

 

He glares at Tony when he opens his eyes, but Tony’s grinning like he’s won at something.  “You fell out of a train,” Tony says, “Get over it.  I fell out of fucking _space_.  There were _aliens_.”

 

“I let go,” Bucky whispers.

 

Tony nods slowly.  “They’d already kick started the process, hadn’t they?”

 

“He— _fuck_.”

 

“It’s okay,” Tony says, reaching out a hand.

 

Bucky takes it, wrapping their fingers together tightly.  “ _Zola_ ,” he makes himself say the name, “tried to get me to shoot Steve.  I think.  I don’t know.  He was yelling at—at _someone_ to fire, and there was this _thing_ inside of me trying to shoot at Steve.  It was already there.”

 

“It?”

 

“The Winter Soldier.”

 

“He’s part of you,” Tony says, “I’ve been trying to get Bruce to realize this, that the Hulk _is_ him, and even though you hate him right now, you _are_ the Winter Soldier.  I’ve seen you utilize those skills before.”

 

“Not like—”

 

“I know, not like before, but you can remold that part of you to align with the person you are now.  And the person you are right now, _Bucky_ , is someone who’s allowed to cry.  I do it sometimes.  Bruce tells me it’s good for my soul or whatever.”

 

“You’re going to hell,” Bucky reminds him.

 

“Well, _yeah_ , but so are you, so.  Wanna keep banging in hell?”

 

Bucky chokes on a laugh, and then Tony’s scooting across the bed to draw him close as he rips open, and it’s the first time since he woke up _again_ that he feels like he might be moving forward, even if it’s a millisecond of a step.

 

——

 

It doesn’t stop.

 

He barely makes it through the night, and when dawn is just starting to peek in through their windows, he jerks awake, his face cold where it was pressing into the snow, and his arm aching like it’s a real, human thing.  He hits the floor, legs tangled in the blankets, and it’s one of the few times he’s woken from a nightmare like this.  Usually, he comes to silently and slips out before Tony can notice, but now, he sags against the floor as the room floods in on him and he remembers where he is.  Tony’s behind him in seconds, tugging the blanket from around him and hauling him upright to hold onto him.

 

“They cut it off,” he gasps.

 

“I know,” Tony says, fingers digging into the metal arm, “It was awful.”

 

They stay there for almost a half hour, Bucky shivering in Tony’s arms until he yanks down a blanket from their bed and wraps him up.  It’s like a war in his head that keeps dragging him back down even as Tony pulls him back up, hangs onto him, and presses kisses into his skin that remind him of the who and where and when and why and _how_.

 

“Yeah?” Tony says when Bucky shifts, pushing away from him.

 

He curls the blanket tighter around him and shrugs one shoulder.  “Make me food,” he says, and Tony smiles, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead before he gets up.

 

Tony leaves him, and _god_ , if that isn’t a reason to love him, Bucky’s not sure what is.  Everyone else is always hovering, whether they’re sitting too close, _Steve_ , or a ghost in the doorway, watching from afar, but Tony keeps leaving him to his own devices, keeps giving him the option to be strong or to break, and he thinks the option alone is what helps him stand up, toss the blanket back onto the bed, and find something warm to wear.

 

He ends up in a pair of ratty old jeans that Tony will scoff at, with holes ripped all over, but they fit him just the way he likes, hugged close, but not tight like Peter’s always are.  He steals one of Tony’s odd band shirts with an even odder name— _who the fuck are the Allman Brothers_ , he’d said one time, and Tony hadn’t played anything but them for a week, howling along like a cat in distress—printed across the front, as well as one of his flannels, which he’d originally thought would be too small, but then he got Tony naked beneath him, and well _shit_ , he’s a lot bigger than Steve ever gave him credit for.

 

When Bucky leaves their suite, he stamps down the urge to check the corners and lets himself walk freely into the kitchen.  Thor is there, _reading the paper_ , and in board shorts, but Bucky decides not to comment on it because Wanda’s idly picking blueberries out of a bowl, so he sits next to her and steals the occasional one.  She smiles and pushes it closer to him, and he pretends he doesn’t see Tony’s smile at that.

 

“Okay,” Steve says loudly as he comes in, _wearing an apron_ , and really, Bucky’s not sure what’s going on anymore.

 

“I said no,” Tony says, pointing a wicked looking knife at him without looking up.

 

“That’s too bad,” Steve says, and knocks his arm out of the air.

 

How they manage to fit Tony, Bruce, and Steve at the counter, all cooking, is beyond him, but Bucky watches on in fond amusement as they all work around one another, Tony and Bruce taking it in turns to yell at Steve for being in the way.

 

And then, for no reason at all, there’s an explosion outside.

 

Bucky hits the floor, ducking beneath the island as there’s a crash and Mjolnir comes rocketing through to Thor’s outstretched hand.  Tony’s plucked a gun from inside one of the cabinets, and Steve has already started running out of the kitchen for his shield when Bruce calmly says, “Firework.”

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Tony says, and flicks the safety on his gun, “It’s fucking _May_.”

 

“What’s a firework?” Thor asks, his hammer still raised.

 

“Uh,” Tony says, “It’s a—James?”

 

“Oh no,” Wanda says softly, scooting off her stool and dropping to her knees.  Bucky is pressed flat against the island, still looking out toward the window.  “Bucky,” she says, reaching forward.  He reacts on instinct, metal arm flying out to grab hers, but Wanda is faster than him, throwing up a shield of red energy with her right hand as her left fingers start to twist.

 

“Shit, sorry,” he says, dropping his arm.

 

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice so kind and so quiet that he has to look away.  She straightens, holding out a hand, and he takes it, following her up.

 

“I’m fine,” he says when he sees Steve looking at him.  Tony glances over his shoulder after he flips an egg, and nods once.  Bucky smiles, catching his eye.  “Steve, really,” he says when Steve won’t stop, “Just didn’t expect it.  But really, fireworks in May?  What the fuck?”

 

“Exactly!” Tony exclaims.

 

“It appears there is some kind of celebration happening in the city,” Vision says as he comes in.

 

Bucky watches Tony’s shoulders tighten, and wonders if there’s a polite way to ask Vision to go away.  Wanda is immediately interested in a possible festival, and starts questioning Vision on what he knows when an idea occurs to Bucky.  He taps the island once, and Friday pulls up a small screen for him, which he quickly types a message onto, firing it off to Tony.

 

Five seconds later, he watches Tony grin as he opens the fridge.

 

Breakfast is the usual loud affair.  Whenever they get together, there’s always an enormous amount of food, and Tony _always_ makes fun of him for being one of the heavy eaters, though today, he just seems content to stick his toes under Bucky’s denim clad thigh and sit back, listening to everyone chatter.

 

After, Bucky offers to clean up with Steve, if only to get him off his case, and Steve happily agrees, already getting up and collecting plates.  “I’ll be downstairs in an hour?” Bucky says, turning to Tony.

 

Tony just hums and leans forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth that he’s still thinking about when he’s at the sink with Steve, Grant eating nearby.

 

“You and Tony seem to be getting along well,” Steve says, his voice tight at the edges, though Bucky can tell he’s trying to let it be neutral.

 

“We are,” Bucky says, “I’m lucky to have him.”  Steve just nods slowly.  “What?” Bucky says, “Just say it.”

 

“I just—don’t think it’s a good idea,” Steve admits, staring pointedly at the dish he’s cleaning.

 

“Still?”

 

“Buck, he’s—”

 

“As fucked up as I am, yeah.  Kind of why I like him.”

 

“What?”  Steve turns to him abruptly, getting soap on the floor.

 

Bucky sighs and kneels to clean it before he responds, “He’s got a lot of the same scars as me.  He knows how to be around me, and I know how to be around him.  It’s not a dance that I have to learn.  It’s one I already know.”

 

“Oh,” Steve says.

 

“Is that an understanding oh or a placating oh?”

 

“A little of both?”

 

“I’ll take that,” Bucky says before plucking the overly clean dish from Steve’s hands, “Pay attention.”

 

“What _ever_ ,” Steve says, and knocks their shoulders together.

 

After they’ve finished with the dishes, Steve tries to ask Bucky to go downstairs and spar with him, but Bucky gives him this sigh like he knows what he’s trying to do and heads into his suite to change.  It’s getting nicer out, but he still grabs his leather jacket because _hell yes_ , they’re taking the bike.

 

Downstairs, the garage is empty, so he asks Friday to bother him out of the lab while he hunts down the keys.  “Where are we headed?” Tony asks three minutes later.

 

Bucky looks up and over, bites his lip as he checks to make sure the garage is empty, and then pins Tony against the nearest wall, kisses him until he’s feeling a little light-headed by how handsome he looks, and then steps back, flattening a hand against his shoulder when Tony tries to follow him.  “Later,” Bucky says, and just about throws that to the wind when Tony _smirks_.

 

It’s one of those days he’s never going to forget.  He drives, Tony’s arms wrapped warm and tight around him, and when they park in Montauk two and a half hours later, he smiles at Bucky like he’s holding the sun.

 

They walk along the pier first, which is nearly in full swing, tourists flocking from all over, swarming around them so that they got lost in the crowd.  They end up with seafood at the end of the pier, overlooking the water, and Tony is quiet and unassuming in a way Bucky has never seen before.

 

“My mom took me here once,” he says, casting a glance out at the water.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says immediately.

 

“Stop,” Tony says, reaching across the table to curl his fingers around Bucky’s clenched hand, forcing his fingers to unwind before he lifts it and kisses his knuckles.  “I was eleven,” he goes on, not releasing Bucky’s hand, “and Howard had just gotten home.  He was early by a few hours, but he must’ve thought it was dinnertime because he was screaming for her.  He got me instead.  He was furious that I wasn’t in school, and I reminded him that it was summer, but that didn’t matter.  _Where are your tutors, then, you worthless piece of_ —smack.  It wasn’t the first time by a long shot, but it was the first time she picked up and left.  Told Howard to fend for himself and drove us out here.  We spent the weekend.”

 

“Was he ever kind?” Bucky asks.

 

“When I was little,” Tony says, nodding, finally sitting back and releasing his hand, “Before school began, which was early regardless, but I have some memories of him explaining the innards of a car or reading business reports to put me to sleep.  He was never creative enough for stories, though.”

 

“Liar,” Bucky accuses because he can see it written plainly across his face.

 

Tony shakes his head, looking toward the water again.  “The only stories he ever told were of you and Cap.  He used to hit her, too.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“No,” Tony says, looking back to him, “It’s okay.  I think I’ve—come to terms with it, him being dead at your hands.  I had no love for him.  He was emotionally and physically abusive, and to add insult to injury, he was working for Hydra.  It’s—it’s okay.”

 

“And Maria?” Bucky asks because he has to know.

 

Tony smiles, and it’s a little terrifying.  “That’s a work in progress,” he admits.

 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” Bucky says, trying for a smile.

 

They’re saved from the conversation with the arrival of their food.  Even still, Bucky thinks it may be rude to change the subject until Tony says, “Honesty time, then.  Why didn’t you tell me your arm was lagging?”

 

“It’s, like, less than two seconds of lag time,” Bucky says, “I can handle it.”

 

“I think it just took half a year for you to pick up your knife.  Seriously, it’s like—you do know you live with an engineer, right?” Tony snaps, though he’s grinning, “You and Wilson both, always too chicken shit to tell me when something’s not at optimal performance.”

 

“Bird shit.”

 

“Shut— _up_.”  He tries to continue on, but then he’s laughing, and Bucky just smiles and reaches a foot under the table to press against Tony’s.  That, however, butters him right up.  “Oh, are we playing footsies?  So, this one time, right—”

 

“At band camp, yeah,” Bucky says, and Tony kicks him.

 

“I was having a rebellious streak—”

 

“I think it’s more of a lifelong condition.”

 

“I will dismantle that arm and give it seven seconds of lag.”

 

“Well, _that’s_ rude.”

 

Tony feigns stabbing him with his fork.  “I brought this guy home, thought I’d spice things up over the holidays for a bit, and my mom was in one of her _I’m the boss_ moods, so Howard was to say not a word about it.  God, you should have seen his face.  Nearly turned purple when he noticed our feet touching under the table.  And what even is it with feet?  Do you have a fetish?”

 

“You’re impossible to take anywhere,” Bucky says.

 

“I’m introducing you to Wade when we get back.  He makes me look tame.”

 

“He—” he breaks off as Tony’s phone rings, which Bucky knows it will only do if Friday’s been asked to interrupt him with something urgent.

 

“I swear to god, if this is—yes, Steven?”

 

“We may have a problem,” Steve says, and he sounds calmer than Tony expected.

 

Tony reaches for his jacket, digging out an earphone, which he hands over to Bucky.  “Define problem,” he says.

 

“Friday was doing her usual humanoid Sunday morning Earth sweep,” Steve says.

 

“She’s very good at that,” Tony says, “If you’re about to tell me she found something non-humanoid, I’d like to point out that there’s a lobster in front of me right now, _and_ it’s a good one.”

 

“Not one of those subpar McDonald’s ones?” Clint says.

 

“Those are scary,” Tony says.

 

“Enough,” Steve says, “She found something alien.”

  
“ _Something_ alien, or something specifically alien?”

 

“Kree,” Steve says.

 

“So I called Quill,” Thor says.

 

Tony groans.  “Really?  That’s what’s happening right now?  You called _Quill_?”

 

“Who’s Quill?” Bucky asks.

 

“The fucking— _guardian of the galaxy_ ,” Tony says like he’s offended, “God, they’re obnoxious.”

 

“I quite like the raccoon,” Thor says, “He was a laugh last time he was in Asgard.”

 

“They get to visit Asgard, and we don’t?” Wanda asks, “Not fair.”

 

“He was being held as a prisoner,” Thor says, “I can certainly clap you in chains, and bring you up, if you wish.”

 

“That sounds kinky.”

 

“Guys!” Steve exclaims, “This is serious.”

 

“It doesn’t feel serious,” Tony says, “For one, you sound normal.”

 

“So far, nothing has happened,” Steve admits, “But we’re taking precautionary measures.”

 

“ _Or_ ,” Bruce says, “Let’s not, and say we did.”

 

“Oh, do elaborate,” Tony says as he plugs his own earphone in, drops his phone, and starts eating.

 

“This could be a friendly visit,” Bruce says, “They could just be checking us out.”

 

“Checking us out?” Bucky repeats, “What are they, hovering in a spaceship over New York?”

 

“Well, there’s that,” Steve says.

 

“This is the best part of the story,” Nat says.

 

“It was cloudy, so no one noticed,” Clint says.

 

Tony sighs loudly, points his fork at Bucky, and says, “We’ll be back in three hours, Cap.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Bye, sweetums.”  He hangs up, and says, “Don’t say it.  Number one, I don’t have a suit with me, and even if I did, I’m not carrying your beefy ass all the way to fucking Manhattan.  Number two, Quill and his ragtag team of misfits aren’t here yet, so we’re kosher.  Number three, shut your fucking mouth, I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

 

“What, the wormhole?” Bucky asks because sometimes, he’s an asshole.  Tony’s glare lets him know it’s one of those times.  “It’s just a ship in the sky, Tony.  It’s not a hole into space.”

 

“Not _yet_.”

 

“No one’s going to drop a nuke on New York.  They know better now.”

 

Tony looks up, studying him for a long moment before he asks, “Will you be there?”

 

“With open arms,” Bucky says, and Tony’s eyes narrow again.

 

“Don’t—”

 

“Cos darling, you’re my angel.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Do you, though?”

 

Tony pretends to stab him, and Bucky just smiles.  They finish up lunch before making their way back to the bike, and Tony surprises him by wrapping their hands together as they walk back down the pier.  “I didn’t really peg you for public displays of affection,” Bucky says even as he tightens their hands, smiling over at Tony.

 

“Astute observation,” Tony agrees, “Some days, however.”

 

Bucky frowns when Tony doesn’t return the smile.  “Everything okay?”  Tony nods, though Bucky notices the way his other hand twitches, like it wants to close over the reactor, protect it.  “Have you ever thought about having it removed?” Bucky asks.

 

“Yes,” Tony says, “All the time.  I just—who am I without this?  Just a—man in a suit of armor.”

 

“Okay, look,” Bucky says, “Steve’s not the best when it comes to—” he pauses, fishing for a polite word.

 

“People,” Tony says, “He sucks with people.”

 

“He does,” Bucky agrees, “And he’s got a temper with a fuse about as short as his pinky finger, but all that shit is just words, Tony.  You have to know that.  You are so much more than your suit, than your superhero, than _that_.”  He reaches a hand over to tap once against the reactor.  “You are one of the bravest men I know, and that wouldn’t change just because you didn’t have a piece of metal in your chest yanking shrapnel away from your heart.”

 

“A piece of metal?” Tony says, trying for a smile that threatens to break.

 

“Fine, a magnet,” Bucky says, and it does the trick.  Tony laughs softly, squeezing Bucky’s hand.

 

He’s just starting the engine on the bike when Tony says, “At least let me take a look at the arm before we jump into a war with a bunch of fucking aliens.”

 

Bucky grins.  “If we don’t get pulled over, deal.”

 

“Oh snap,” Tony says, practically humming with excitement.

 

They make it back to Manhattan in under two hours, and there it is, this great looming ship hanging in the sky.  About sixteen miles out from the compound, Tony says, “Friday, give Cap a ring, include Bucky in the call.”

 

“How close are you?” Steve asks as soon as he’s picked up.

 

“Almost there,” Bucky says, “What’s the situation?”

 

“We got a blip from Quill a half hour ago.  He’s about forty minutes out, he thinks.”

 

“He _thinks_?” Tony says, “Isn’t he in _outer space_?  Earth kind of—son of a bitch.  _Thor_.”

 

“Tony,” Thor says, and his tone betrays the obvious grin he’s got on, “Quill may have asked for some modifications to his ship.”

 

“You little asshole,” Tony says, “Is that where my energy engine blueprints went?  Friday told me they were misplaced.  _Friday_.”

 

“They were, sir.  I have no record of Thor infiltrating our systems.”

 

“Son of a _bitch_.”

 

“He may have mentioned that you wouldn’t be able to detect him,” Thor says.

 

“So the ship hasn’t moved?” Bucky asks, interrupting the oncoming tirade.

 

“Same position,” Steve says, “No communication, either.”

 

“Have we reached out?” Tony asks.

 

“Not yet,” Steve says, “We were waiting for you.  We, uh—we can’t get in.”

 

“ _I_ can’t get in, specifically,” Peter says, “And it’s infuriating.”

  
“Nat?” Tony asks.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

 

Twenty minutes later, Bucky’s watching Tony lead for the first time since he met him.  He sends Peter, Nat, and Clint off in different directions in the lab, corralling Friday and Jarvis both to assist before he says, “Going dark, Cap.”

 

No one says a word when Bucky doesn’t leave the lab.

 

——

 

Tony’s in and looking for hostile signs when there’s a great, thundering noise from above.  Bucky goes to investigate, running into Thor on the way, who grins and says, “He likes to make an entrance.  Will you fight with us?”

 

“Of course,” Bucky says, following Thor through the compound, “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“You have had a trying few months,” Thor says, “Life has not been easy, I know, and I thought you might like some time away from the action.”

 

“Thor,” Bucky says, with this smile that could be considered fond, “I’m a soldier, through and through.”

 

“You are one of few,” Thor says, “I worry about the others.”

 

“Like Tony and Bruce?”

 

“And Peter, Clint, and Natasha.  Even Quill and his crew, I am concerned about.  Clint and Natasha are well trained and fearsome to behold, yes, but they are not soldiers like you and I.  They are not accustomed to these horrors.”

 

“Don’t let Nat hear you say that.  What about Wanda?”

 

“That, my friend, is another story entirely,” Thor says, and then they’re leaving the living half of the compound and entering into the Avengers side.  There are various levels and rooms devoted to training, and as they pass through, Bucky can see different people, many whom he does not know, working diligently.

 

When they finally reach the hangar, it is to a man in all red letting out a wild holler as he drops through the ceiling.  His entire face is enclosed in a mask, and he’s holding a strange looking gun as he turns in their direction, feet planted firmly.

 

“Well, I’ll be,” he says before he stows away the gun, lifts a hand to his head, and the mask dissolves, “The mighty Thor, god of thunder.”

 

“Peter Quill,” Thor says, striding over to him.

 

The two embrace, and Bucky hangs back, watching as the rest of his crew climb down out of the ceiling.  Their ship is parked outside still, the opening in the ceiling having been jarred midway so that they couldn’t land within the compound.

 

Bucky likes to think he takes it in stride when a green woman, a man nearly triple the size of Steve, a _tree_ , and a raccoon are who makes up the rest of Quill’s crew, but the green woman’s sneer lets him know he hasn’t done that good of a job.  “Friends!” Thor booms.

 

“Romans,” Bucky mutters.

 

“Yo, I ain’t cuttin’ off no ears,” the raccoon says.

 

Bucky blinks.

 

Because he’s _Thor_ , he just beams and continues on, “Welcome to Midgard.  I am pleased to introduce Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.  Is that right?” he adds, looking back at Bucky.

 

Bucky blinks again.  “Yeah,” he says, mouth splitting out into a grin, “Dead on.  How’d you know?”

 

“I finally found an Asgardian alcohol that would work on Steve, and he turned into quite the storyteller.”

 

“Jumpin Jack Flash,” the raccoon says, “We’re gonna meet Captain America?  That sucks.”

 

“James,” Thor says, and Bucky gives a little wave in the direction of Quill and his crew.  Thor is one of the few that his first name doesn’t sound weird coming from.  “I am pleased to introduce the Guardians of the Galaxy.  Led by Peter Quill—”

 

“Starlord,” Quill says, grinning.

 

“Gamora, Drax the Destroyer, Rocket, and Groot.”

 

“I am Groot,” the tree says amicably, beaming at Bucky.

 

“So, you’ve fought Kree before?” Bucky asks.

 

“Fought them?” Quill says, “Last one we went up against damn near broke an already unstable peace treaty.  He caused quite a bit of upset, though.  Here’s hoping mama up there is just saying hello.”

 

“Why is there a yellow Milano parked on my roof?” Tony’s voice floats into the hangar.

 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Quill says proudly.

  
“An eyesore, actually.  Steve’s called a meeting in the kitchen.  There’s food happening, apparently.”

 

“Come, then,” Thor says, and turns off.  His fingers skim along Bucky’s elbow on the way, and Bucky steps close to him, matching his quick, long stride to keep pace as Thor says quietly, “I need a favor.”

 

“Anything,” Bucky says.

 

“I must return to Asgard momentarily.  Can you cover for me?”

 

Bucky looks over at him, frowning, but nods regardless.  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

 

“It is my hope,” Thor says before he leaves him.

 

“You have a metal arm,” Gamora says in his wake, and Bucky just nods, continuing on.  “Were you modified for a purpose?”

 

“Nah, just fell out of a train,” Bucky says, trying to let his tone show that he’s not willing to talk about it.

 

“That sucks,” Quill says, and suddenly, he’s beside Bucky, who just sighs and keeps walking, “I was abducted by aliens once.”

 

“You’re from Earth?” Bucky asks, his surprise evident, and then he shrugs, “At least they didn’t put you on ice for 70 years.”

 

“Shit, I knew it!” Quill yells as Rocket groans, “You owe me, little man.”

 

“You call me little man _one more time_.”

 

“I am Groot,” Groot says, trying to maintain the peace.

 

This continues on as they make their way back through the compound, and Bucky feels like his skin is crawling, like he isn’t going to survive these last few steps.  It’s mindless chatter, and while he enjoys it with the Avengers, he doesn’t know these people, and he doesn’t appreciate the way Rocket and Quill keep asking questions about his arm.  The beginnings of a headache are starting to form at his temples when they finally reach the communal floor.

 

“We’ve got back-up on their way up, and we’ll bring them up to speed,” he can hear Steve saying, “Tony’s sending you a summary of what he found.”

 

His name alone softens some of the hard edges creeping up around Bucky, and he relaxes further when he sees him, typing quickly at the island.  Bruce and Wanda are cooking, the aroma wafting around full of spice and mischief.

 

“Thank you, director,” Steve says, and Fury’s face disappears before Steve turns to greet the Guardians.

 

Bucky doesn’t hear any of it.  He steps up behind Tony, slipping his arms around his waist and pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck before he rests his forehead there, just breathing him in.  Tony shifts, leaning into him just enough that Bucky feels it in his body how unwound he is, and he steps closer, extinguishing any semblance of space between them.

 

When he stops typing finally, he leans back fully, head moving to drop back onto Bucky’s shoulder and nose turning into his neck.  “James,” he whispers.

 

“I’ve been occasionally tempted to call you Anthony,” Bucky admits, kissing his jaw.

 

“Oh, don’t,” Tony says, though he can feel his grin against his skin, “Steve does that sometimes.”

 

“I know, I witnessed one of those resulting punches.”

 

“He deserved it.”

 

“So did you.”

 

“We made contact.”

 

“And?” Bucky prompts, nudging Tony until he straightens.  Drax is watching them openly even as Steve talks to them, and it makes him uncomfortable enough that he turns, putting his back against the island as he looks at Tony.

 

“Thor’s gone up to Asgard, hasn’t he?” Tony asks.

 

“How did you know?  He only just left,” Bucky says, frowning.

 

“They have a leader,” Tony says, and his smile is sour, “This is a scouting ship.”

 

“Oh god,” Bucky says.

 

“Precisely.  Well,” Tony rolls his eyes, “Demigod.  Thor’s brother.  Well.  Stolen adopted brother.”

 

“Loki,” Bucky says, surprising Tony, “He’s told me about him, and I’ve done my own researching.”

 

“How do you feel about them?” Tony asks, jerking his chin toward the Guardians, and Bucky scowls.  “Yeah, me too.  I, honest to Satan, thought someone was going to die last time we teamed up with them.”

 

“Do you even believe in hell?” Bucky asks.

 

“For you, baby, I’ll believe in anything,” Tony says, and really, it’s the obnoxious face he puts on that makes Bucky laugh softly, turning toward him.  “There’s my man,” Tony says, reaching for him.  He draws Bucky against him, one hand pressing solid against his lower back as the other finds his metal hand and winds their fingers together.

 

“Are you okay?” Bucky whispers into his shoulder.

 

“Don’t ask that,” Tony says, leaning his head against Bucky’s as Bruce lifts an eyebrow in his direction.

 

“There are aliens involved,” Bucky says.

 

“Loki’s got this thing for brainwashing,” Tony says.

 

Bucky just holds onto him tighter, and Tony does the only thing he can think of.  He swallows down his fear and focuses his energy on Bucky, leaving light, lingering kisses anywhere that he can reach until Bucky finally steps back again.  “Thank you,” he says.

 

Tony reaches a hand over to press his thumb between his brows.  “Third eye vibes or some shit,” he says, and Bucky smiles.

 

Tony’s tablet dings, so he turns back to it, and Bucky turns to Bruce, asking, “Can I help at all?”

 

“Yes,” Wanda says immediately, “These are taking on a life of their own.”

 

He goes to help her with the vegetables she’s cutting up, and he doesn’t know how he doesn’t end up cutting off one of his fingers.  He can’t stop thinking about the way Tony had held onto him.  Even though Bucky was sure something like fear was flooding through him, he put it away to play with later and instead gave Bucky the moment of stillness that he needed.

 

Something is starting to occur to him, and he’s not sure he’s ready to succumb to it, but as he watches Tony start arguing with Steve about a minor point in their plan, he can’t help but smile.  Whatever it comes down to, there’s this, right here, this moment where happiness actually seems attainable.

 

Wanda forces Clint into setting the table, Nat and Betty are set on drinks duty, Peter gets in everyone’s way until Bruce starts handing him dishes to bring out, Sam joins him, citing not wanting to listen to Steve and Tony bicker anymore, and so, on his way into the dining room, Bucky knocks his elbow against Tony’s, who almost immediately starts to back down.

 

Eventually, everyone manages to cram inside the dining room, which is massive anyway, built to accommodate the Avengers and more, if necessary, but Bucky still finds himself sitting next to Quill, who won’t stop _talking to him_.

 

He remembers when Steve would get like this, when he would just talk nonstop, whether it was to cover his nerves or his insecurities, and Bucky would just stare at him in bewilderment.  When he looks over at Steve, though, he sees a flash of someone younger, of someone bent over a map and confirming different base locations.

 

“Tony,” Bucky says instinctively, reaching for him.

 

An explosion rocks the city that they love.

 

They don’t have time, in the interim.

 

Tony’s talking to Friday before they’ve even left the dining room, Steve is running into the kitchen, where he’s stashed the shield, there’s a crack of lightning outside to signal Thor’s return, Peter’s already wearing his suit and whips a mask out of his back pocket, and Drax punches the wall, leaving a dent.  Bucky hurries out with the rest of them, and they’re splitting up into two different quinjets while the Guardians board the Milano.

 

Tony and Sam take to the skies with Thor, Peter skirts out of the quinjet as soon as they’ve reached the edge of the city, webbing his way toward the destruction unfolding, and Bucky finds himself sitting next to Steve without even realizing it.

 

“You good?” he asks, leaning their shoulders together.

 

Bucky almost tells him yes, but he’s never been good at lying to Steve, so he shrugs.  “Can’t get out of my head,” he admits.

 

“I like the cowl,” Steve says, “It helps.  Narrows my focus.”

 

“Someday, I’m gonna steal it,” Bucky teases.

 

“Hey Barnes,” Tony comes over the comms, “Before I forget, left you a present in the jet.  Straight ahead.”

 

Bucky looks over, frowning as he scans the wall opposite him, and then he spots it.  “ _Tony_ ,” Steve’s voice is almost violent, “Are you _trying_ —”

 

“Thank you,” Bucky says before he gets up and crosses the jet to where his old mask is hanging.  He doesn’t know how Tony knew, how he understood that he just needed to disappear, but then he slides the goggles on, and it all makes sense.

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” Jarvis says softly, “I am here only for calibration, and then I will, unfortunately, not be of service.  Mister Stark has decided against making me combat ready again.”

 

“Thought you were self-improving,” Bucky says.

 

“Indeed.  Mister Stark has chosen to ignore that for the time being.  This will only take a moment, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

His vision is awash in that soft blue glow that Bucky’s grown to love so much, and then it clears, and he’s left with a small interface.

 

“Alright, who wants out?” Nat calls from the front.  Bucky clips on the lower half of the mask and turns.  “Shit,” Nat says, “That’s right out of one of my nightmares.”

 

“How close are we?” Steve asks, quickly looking away from Bucky.

 

“Close as you’re gonna get, cowboy,” Clint says, and opens the bay door, “Not landing, either, so mind your knees.”

 

Bucky reaches up, twisting his hair out of his face and securing it in a haphazardly done bun before he checks his weaponry, nods to Steve, and then jumps from the jet.  He lands easily, darting behind a nearby car and dropping to one knee.  Steve does the same, settling across the street from him.

 

“Go time,” Bucky says, and heads out.

 

The mask does exactly what Steve likes about his.  He forgets that his mind is trying to pull him back to his days with the Commandos, and instead gives him this tunnel vision of where he is now.  He and Steve approach together until Bucky spots a building he likes, and he leaves Steve to plunge into the fray.

 

He gets one look at Loki and fires off a single shot that he watches shatter through his side before he realizes his position is now compromised, and he loops his rifle around his shoulders and runs for the edge of the roof.  Three seconds after he lands on an adjoining building, his blows up.

 

“This feels like Loki 1.0 all over again,” Clint says over the comms, “Cap, Widow and I are going to make a perimeter.  We’ll let you know if there are any Moby Dicks lying around.”

 

“There were whales last time?” Bucky asks before he hops to another roof.

 

“Giant ones,” Peter says as he swings by, “Like, _woah_.”

 

“There were not,” Steve says, “Just because of one misplaced joke.”

 

“I Ahab’d the _shiznat_ out of that thing,” Tony says, “Metallic alien beasts with super hides.  They looked like whales.”

 

“Focus,” Steve says, “We’ve—” there’s a pause as he grunts, and Bucky listens to him fight for a moment before he’s back, “We’ve got small numbers right now, but there’s no telling—”

 

“Yippie-kay-yay, motha _fu_ —”

 

“Language,” Steve interrupts Quill.

 

“Is this a thing?” Bucky asks, “Because you’ve got the biggest fucking potty mouth in the world, Cap.”

 

Steve sighs loudly.

 

“Yo, this shit’s about to light up,” Quill says, “Sorry to burst your rainbow-tinted bubble, but we zipped on up to the tippity top of the atmosphere for a quick look, and _yeesh_.”

 

“How many?” Tony asks, and Bucky frowns at the sharp corners in his voice.

 

“It was a firefight!” Rocket shrieks.

 

“Hey, I like that movie,” Clint says, “We should have a Boondock day.”

 

“We live in _New York_ , and you want to praise a _Boston_ movie?” Bucky says.

 

“Enough,” Steve says, his voice firm and leaving no room for extraneous conversation, “Quill, what kind of damage can you do?”

 

“Some,” he says, and Bucky can practically hear his shrug, “I could use a little help.”

 

“I shall assist where I can,” Thor says, and then Bucky watches him shoot up from the ground, hammer arcing beautifully around him.

 

“Excellent,” Steve says, “Iron Man?”

 

Bucky quickly shifts his gun, adjusting his view until he can spot Tony, and he hates everything that he finds.  Tony is ducked down an alley, one knee and one hand down, but his voice is even when he responds, “Sure thing.  On my way up.”

 

“Have they even breached the planet yet?” Bucky asks.

 

He watches Tony look up through his scope, trying to find him, and he wishes he could be down there with him.

 

“Fair point,” Steve says, “Iron Man, keep an eye on the skies.  We’ll need you up there when they’ve come through.  Winter, how are we looking?”

 

“Oh ho, he’s got a superhero name now!” Clint says before an arrow whistles past Bucky’s building, taking out someone he hadn’t been paying attention to.

 

“Decent,” he says, and gets back to work.

 

On ground level, Tony finds Steve surrounded and quickly dives in to help.  When he’s finished, he spots Hulk hurling past, and he flies off to follow him.  There’s a small hoard of Kree chasing him, so Tony starts picking them off until Hulk realizes he’s got less of a posse, and he turns to help, roaring as he smashes two of their heads together.

  
“Hulk doesn’t like blue people,” he says before he punches one square in the chest.

 

“I know, buddy,” Tony says, zipping around him to snatch one off his back, “How’d you get so many?”

 

“Hulk was Bruce, but there were too many.  Metal man close ears.”

 

“Friday, cut off auditory sensors,” Tony says before he drops out of the air, shoulders instinctively rising up.

 

“Sir, the reactor,” Friday says, but Hulk’s already brought his hands around and smashed them together.

 

Tony is out of range, though he can feel the reactor humming loudly in his chest.  “Come on, Fri,” he croons, “You don’t think I’ve built in some Hulk sensitive protocols?  You good?” he adds in a yell.  Hulk gives him a thumbs up, and Tony laughs as Friday lifts the auditory block.  Sound floods back in, and he looks around to find their entire hoard unconscious on the ground.  “We should—” Tony breaks off as there’s a wild noise to his right, and all he sees is the flash of a blade before fucking _Deadpool_ lands amidst the fallen Kree.

 

“Aw man, did I miss the fun?” he whines.

 

Tony groans.  “Cap, we’ve got a new friend.”

 

“Yeah, I saw him,” Steve says.

 

“Where’s my spidey?” Wade shrieks, turning on the spot.

 

“Spiderman, you’ve got a friend,” Tony amends.

 

“Bad _ass_!” Peter exclaims, “What’s your location?”

 

It takes him half a minute, but then Peter rockets around the corner while Wade’s still got his back turned, and Tony just barely sees the mask shift as he grins before Peter drops onto his shoulders.  “Snookums!” Wade yells, blades whistling up through the air.  Peter laughs and topples off of him, narrowly avoiding his katanas as Wade sheathes them.

 

“Hey, Cap’s about to—” Peter tries to warn him.

 

“Iron Man, we need you in the air.”

 

“Sorry, Tony,” Peter says, frowning before he turns to Wade, “Yo, it’s about to get real up in here.”

 

“You sound like me!” Wade says gleefully before he holds out an arm.  Peter just rolls his eyes and tugs him close, webbing them away.

 

The battle rages on.

 

At one point, it gets bad enough on ground level that Bucky grabs a lift from a passing Peter, which is one of the weirdest experiences he’s ever had, being webbed around, and it reminds him just how strong Peter actually is.  He meets Deadpool at some point, hears him giggling before he actually sees him, and then he takes one look at his quick, jerking movements and jogs over to join him.  They have similar fighting styles, fast and deadly, and when Bucky next looks up, the white circles of his mask have gone wide.

 

“I’m star struck,” he says, “You’re _the Winter Soldier_.”

 

“Heard a lot about you, too, kid,” Bucky says before he lifts a metal fist, laughing when Wade just about melts.

 

“This is the coolest moment of my _life_!” he shrieks before he taps knuckles with Bucky, exploding his hand after.  “ _Peter_!”

 

“I saw, you’re awesome, we’ll discuss it later.”

 

“That is the improper use of awesome!” Wade calls as he goes running after him.

 

“Correct, actually!  Think about it!” Peter says, and then they’re gone, turning a corner.

 

Bucky heads off to find Steve, spots him fighting with Nat, though it looks more like dancing, and is halfway there when Tony drops out of the sky.  “Hey,” Bucky says, reaching up to lift his goggles.

 

“Thirty seconds,” Tony says, and Bucky nods as he checks their surroundings.

 

Tony lets the mask fold away, unveiling just his head, and he opens his mouth, but Bucky beats him to it, pulling off his own mask.  “You’re okay,” he says, “Even if you think you’re not, you are.  I know this is shit, and I know this is stirring up a hell of a lot of bad vibes right now, but—” he breaks off, frowning, and Tony looks like he’s about to unravel, so Bucky lifts his arm and presses a metal thumb between Tony’s brows.  Tony softens, his features slipping away into something that looks a little like adoration.  “It’s okay,” Bucky says, his voice dropping into a near-whisper, “I’m right here, and hell, if you want, I’ll nab Sam’s wings and come up there with you.”

 

“James—”

 

“Tony,” Bucky says, moving his hand and curling both around his jaw, “Just breathe.  One full breath, that’s all I’m asking.”

 

He inhales loudly, smiling when Tony does the same, makes him hold it at the top, and then slows his exhale until his world is narrowed down to him.  “What would I do without you?” Tony says.

 

“Please,” Bucky says, releasing his face, “You are no Juliet, darling.  You did just fine for 45 years.”

 

“Oi,” Tony says, though he’s smiling, “ _You’re_ the old one in this relationship.”

 

“Come on, all this?” Bucky says, lifting a hand to the sky, “This is chump change.  You’ve had worse.  You got this.”

 

“Kiss for the road?” Tony asks even as he steps forward.

 

Bucky meets him halfway, human hand looping his jaw and pinning him there as his metal one presses against the reactor, this metal hum that draws him right back to the first time he’d ever laid fingers on it.  Tony had jerked away like he’d been stung, had looked at Bucky like he didn’t know him.  Now, here they are, in the middle of a battlefield, and he trusts Tony enough to let his guard down, trusts him enough to let his attention wane from any possible threats, trusts him enough to center his axis to this one moment.

 

It’s not only trust, Bucky thinks, and as Tony pulls back just enough so that his mouth still lingers, a fraction of a second, he knows what the other half is.

 

“I’m starting to count my life in the before and after you,” Tony says, eyes still closed, and nose resting along Bucky’s.

 

“I think I love you,” Bucky says.

 

Tony immediately steps back, gives him this look like he thinks he misheard.  “Uh, what?” he says finally.

 

Bucky swallows.  “No,” he says, “There’s no thinking about it.  I know.”

 

“Okay,” Tony says, “Um.  I’m not there yet.”

 

Some part of him expects it, but it still feels like Tony’s delivered a physical blow when he says it out loud.  He doesn’t know how to respond, though, and some automatic part of his brain makes him nod, trying for a smile that he knows looks like a grimace.

 

“Right,” Tony says, “So, uh—there’s a war going on, bye.”

 

He’s never seen Tony flee so fast.  The mask closes over his face, and he’s gone, rocketing back up into the sky.  Bucky sighs, reaching up a hand to yank his goggles back on.  He’s not certain that conversation would have gone differently if they were, say, in bed or in the lab or just _at home_ , but he’s pretty sure telling Tony that he loved him while there were Kree raining down from the sky, the entirety of New York under threat, and a madman at their helm was not exactly his best idea.

 

Still, it’s consistent with their lives, so instead of worrying about it, Bucky clicks his mask back on and runs off toward where Steve and Nat are still fighting.

 

——

 

The strangest thing happens.

 

Tony’s been forced back to ground level.  A Kree ripped out the thruster in one of his boots, and while he was fine managing with just the one, Loki took it upon himself to crack Tony across the chest, shattering one of the protective layers over the reactor.  He’s not an idiot, and has long been working on a space-ready suit, one that has several layers and protocols in place to keep him safe, but it jars him, and he crashes into a building at top speed.  The other thruster shorts out shortly thereafter.

 

Loki lands just behind him, opens his arms in a grand gesture, and starts to speak when a spark of red energy alights along one of his fingers.  He blinks, looking over at it strangely, and then he’s enveloped, this fury that wraps around him and plays its hand at squeezing the life from him.

 

“Wanda, no!” Tony shouts, lunging forward.

 

Loki is faster than him, and Wanda plummets toward the fast-approaching ground.  Tony jumps without thinking, chasing after her.  “Sir, the boots are not functioning properly!” Friday yells.

 

“All remaining power to the hands and chest, then, Friday.  Let’s kick some ass, and get our girl.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Friday says, and quickly starts deploying counter measures.

 

“Deploy flaps!” Tony yells the second he’s got fingers on Wanda.  She feels him and twists, grabbing onto him with one arm as the other flares out, trying to help slow their insane descent.  “Cap!” Tony shouts over the comms.

 

“Hulk, _go_!”

 

“Alright, chicken, hold on,” Tony says as Friday activates magnetization, and Wanda is trapped against him.  She releases the red energy below them and wraps both arms tightly around Tony, and he sends one last blast through his right hand when he spots Hulk, turning them so he gets the brunt of the impact.

 

They’re close enough to the ground that Hulk only just barely manages, and even then, he jumps back into the air, trying to slow down.  When they do eventually crash back down, he holds them close as everything shakes apart around them.

 

“Ow,” Wanda says quietly.

 

Hulk quickly sets them down, and Tony staggers, only remaining upright because Hulk places a gentle hand behind him.  Wanda, however, sits down immediately, blinking rapidly and breathing hard.

 

“You good?” Tony asks, “Anything broken?”

 

“No,” she says, “Just—was that him?”

 

“Loki?  Yeah.  He’s a bit overdramatic.”

 

“He looked like he was about to deliver some obnoxious supervillain speech,” Wanda says, and startles a laugh out of Tony.

 

When he feels like he might not fall over, he straightens away from Hulk’s hand and holds one out to Wanda.  “Ready to plunge back into the fray?”

 

“Rage against the dying of the light,” Wanda says, letting Tony pull her upright, “It’s getting late.”

 

Tony frowns, looking up.  “It’s also—what the _hell_?”

 

“Chimichangas and _baby butts_ , is he retreating?” an unfamiliar voice comes over the comms.

 

“ _Parker_ ,” Tony growls.

 

“Cap said I could!” Peter says.

 

“I did,” Steve says, “If he’s here fighting, he should be in the loop.  Deadpool, what are you seeing?”

 

“Uh, Laufeyson is beating the treat, looks like.  Shakin’ his tush right on out.  You wanna confirm, muscle man?”

 

“Are you talking to me, fiend?” Thor asks.

 

“Oh my god, the god of thunder called me a fiend!  _Peter_!”

 

“Honestly, who said he was allowed?” Clint says, “I hate to agree with him, but Sam and I are seeing the same thing.”

 

“Oh, he’s gonna make supervillain speech, guys!” Wade yells, overly excited.

 

“It is late,” Loki’s voice leaves terror in its wake as it echoes around them, “You are weary, and you have fought well.  We meet again upon the morn to finish this.”

 

And then, unbelievably, he’s gone.

 

“Thor,” Steve says, “What the hell?”

 

“Remember in _Deathly Hallows_ , when Voldemort gives them an hour to take care of their wounded and dead?” Peter is the one that answers.

 

“Yes, precisely!” Thor says, sounding incredibly pleased.

 

“Tell me someone did a Harry Potter marathon with the fucking god of thunder,” Tony says.

 

“It was great fun,” Thor says, “This is a true Asgardian fight.  Loki intends to continue our battle after each side has found rest.”

 

“New plan,” Tony says, “Let’s bust up there and take him out before he can escape.”

 

“Hang on,” Steve says, “I have a feeling that would result in a direr situation.”

 

“Yes, indeed,” Thor says, “If we attack now, the Kree will see it as disrespect, and they will not stop until we are dead.  Should we achieve victory tomorrow, they will consider us a mighty threat and surrender back to their home planet.”

 

“Big man’s right,” Quill says, “I’m parking the Milano back at the compound, sorry guys.”

 

“Cap?” Nat says.

 

“Alright, fall back, then.  Get Fury on the line, and bring the quinjet over.  We’ll regroup and discuss.”

 

The next hour is a flurry of information and discussion, and quite a bit of yelling, until they finally settle on the decision to wait out the night.  Fury’s none too pleased, but he’s promised them backup from SHIELD in the morning.  And then, they’re all disappearing to various parts of the compound.  Tony is down in his lab before they’ve even finished talking to Fury, but Steve lets him go, already having seen the damage done to the suit.  When they’re done, and Steve’s asked them to regroup in two hours for dinner, Sam and Clint make their way downstairs, as well.

 

Tony’s half out of the suit, yelling at Friday while Jarvis tries to get him to stay still, and, as they’re coming in, Dum-E rolls in front of him and nearly trips him, so Tony gives up, waiting while Friday tries her best to get him out of the mangled legs.

 

“Don’t even tell me you’re down here for repairs,” he says when he spots them, “Absolute bullshit.”

 

“Dude, if you can’t, I’ll manage,” Sam says, “Just thought I’d check first.”

 

“How bad is it?”

 

Sam turns, and his left wing is sagging badly.

 

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Tony says, “Barton?”

 

“Can I borrow a desk?  I can handle myself.”

 

“Yeah, go for it.  Peter should be—stay in your corner,” he adds when Peter comes zipping through.

 

“I didn’t do it!” Peter yells, and then one of his shooters explodes, “Shit, shit, shit!”

 

“ _Ooh_ , it’s sticky!” Wade says even as he starts helping him clean it up.

 

“Tony, I’m sorry,” Peter says, “I don’t know what happened.”

 

“It’s fine.  U, help him.  Wilson, you good?”

 

“Just here for grub and the spidey,” Wade says, not looking up.

 

“Alright, Wil—son.”

 

“I’m Wilson 1.0,” Sam says, already coming over, “Also, I’m stuck.”

 

Tony sighs loudly at him, and then gets to work.  An hour has passed before Bruce comes down, and though Tony’s finally gotten Sam out of his wings, he says, “You’re on your own for a bit,” and leaves to go over to Bruce, who’s leaning against the doorway.  “Hey,” he says softly, reaching out a hand.

 

Bruce lifts his hand, and Tony takes it, drawing him in close.  “I can’t breathe,” Bruce whispers, and though Tony can hear him breathing just fine, he can feel the depression in his side, and he rubs a hand over his back.

 

“Jarvis, can you find Betty for me?”

 

“She’s on her way down,” Bruce mumbles, “He’s—fuck, he’s right there.”

 

Tony steps back, looking at Bruce’s face.  One of his eyes is green, and he looks absolutely miserable.  “How about this for a slice of awesome,” he says, lifting one hand to brush Bruce’s curls from his face, “Jarvis recorded this badass new documentary for me, and I assume Betty’s coming down with tea, so you get all cozied up and just relax, okay?”

 

“Tony,” he whispers.

 

“I know, Bruce,” Tony sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, “I’ll let Rogers know you’re sitting out tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and looks like he might say more, but then Betty is behind him, ushering him over to the futon and kissing Tony on the cheek on her way by.

 

Steve’s not long after them, and, to his surprise, Bucky is with him.  Steve nods once in Tony’s direction, letting him know he’ll be over momentarily to speak with him before he circles the lab, stopping by everyone.  Bucky, however, comes straight for him.

 

“Can we talk?” he asks when he stops at Tony’s desk.

 

“Uh oh,” Sam says, and makes himself scarce.

 

“Are we really doing this right now?” Tony asks, not pulling away from Sam’s wing, “Not that I don’t want to eventually have this conversation, but I’ve got a shit ton of work to do.  This thing is busted all to hell, and my fucking boots were mangled, Peter’s shooters are literally exploding, and Bruce’s ribs are _still_ broken.”

 

“Two out of those four things don’t sound like your problem,” Bucky says, and smiles when Tony brandishes a screwdriver at him.

 

“Here’s the deal,” he says, straightening and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, rolling his eyes when Bucky’s smile widens, “I know there’s grease there now, it’s a habit.  I’m attracted to it, apparently.”

 

“You’re attract _ive_ ,” Bucky agrees.

 

“You talk, I keep working.”

 

“Do you get to talk at all?”

 

“Sure, I’ll respond.”

 

“Fair shake,” Bucky says before he steals a seat, dropping into it backward, and spinning to face Tony, “Shitty timing.”

 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Tony says, turning back to the wing, “You just confessed your undying love for me in the middle of a fucking battle, numb nuts.”

 

“Pretty sure it wasn’t a confession of undying love,” Bucky says, and somehow, despite this being a potentially devastatingly awkward conversation, it’s _not_.  Bucky had imagined this going much worse, right from the get-go, and he wonders if Tony’s had this conversation a half dozen times already in his life.

 

“Oh no, loud thoughts,” Tony says, elbow twisting up into the air as he tries to free something, pulling hard.

 

Bucky watches the muscles bunch in his arm, bicep bulging, and _god_ , how is this his life right now, where he’s really going to do this _again_?  “I love you,” he says softly.

 

Tony gets the piece free, and probably would have remained upright if Bucky hadn’t fucking spouted those words at him again, and thus, he topples over.  “This is having quite the effect on you,” Bucky says, not moving to help him.

 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Tony says from the ground, flipping over and pushing up, crossing his legs, “Do you mean it?”

 

Bucky sighs before dropping down in front of him, pressing their knees together.  “I think so,” he says, “It feels that way.”

 

“What way?  What does love feel like?” Tony asks.

 

It occurs to Bucky all at once.

 

Tony’s never had this conversation before, never had someone tell him that they loved him, never experienced, or hell, been _allowed_ to experience this emotion, and now, here it is in front of him, and he can’t even recognize it.

 

“See, I fucked it up,” Tony says, starting to get up, “I said something wrong.”

 

“Nope,” Bucky says, and yanks him back down.  He holds onto him, hands wrapped tightly around his.  “Tony, I—” he breaks off, shaking his head.  He doesn’t know how to explain this, doesn’t know how to tell him that—it’s that exactly.  Bucky smiles.  “I don’t have as many nightmares when you’re sleeping next to me.  When I can’t get out of my head, seeing your face makes it easier, knowing you’re there, ready and willing to help, makes everything a little bit clearer.  My arm doesn’t hurt as much sometimes.  It’s just—I can’t—” he sighs, looking down, not sure what he’s trying to say, and then Tony leans forward, nose bumping his until he looks up, and he smiles this tiny, fond thing before he kisses him, still holding onto his hands.

 

It’s like breathing for that first time again, and remembering what his name is.

 

Bucky hums, slowly pulling back.  “Steve walks loud,” he says by way of explanation, and Tony laughs lightly, blue eyes dropping down.

 

“We’ll reconvene?” he says hopefully.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says, squeezing his hands.

 

“Good,” Tony says, “Me either.”  He looks up and kisses Bucky lightning fast before he’s on his feet again, throwing his screwdriver at Sam’s wing.

 

Bucky reaches over to his desk, snatching a tablet, and then he scoots over to the desk opposite, leaning back against it with one leg kicked out while he opens up Tony’s digital library.

 

“Hey Cap,” Tony says, “What’s shaking?”

 

“How are you?”

 

“Bit bruised up, otherwise good.  You?”

 

Steve shrugs one shoulder.  “About the same.  The team’s a little shaken.”

 

“Bruce is sitting out tomorrow, and I don’t care what he said about it,” Tony says, fighting with the wing while he talks.

 

“I agree,” Steve says, “Clint’s taking a break from his bow to grill for a bit, so I’m gonna go up to help him.  Wanda needed to distract herself, so she’s making vegetables, I think.”

 

“You don’t make vegetables, Steve, you sauté them,” Bucky says from the ground.

 

“Who said you were allowed near the grill?” Tony says, lifting an eyebrow at him, “That shit was expensive.”

 

“You didn’t build it?” Steve teases.

 

“Heck no, grilling’s an art form.  You need a brain for that.  _Wait_.  Jay, can you learn how to grill?”

 

“I would need hands, sir,” Jarvis reminds him.

 

“That’s dumb—been there, done that, he gives me nightmares.”

 

“Vision?” Steve clarifies.  Tony shudders dramatically.  “Anyway, looks like Wade’s gotten a little quiet.”

 

“He doesn’t like us,” Tony reminds him, “We did try to have him locked up after he killed that witch that time, remember?”

 

“I’d rather not,” Steve says, “Not one of our finer moments.  He’s taken the mask off, though.”

 

“Don’t worry, Peter will have him out of the suit and into something not covered in blood and guts before dinner.  I don’t know how he does it, but that kid’s a miracle worker with him,” Tony says, “Here, give us a hand.”  He shows Steve what he needs fixed, and Steve carefully readjusts the wing.  “So, grilling?” Tony asks when he’s done.

 

“Thor’s also helping.  He says he’s grilled boar before, so.”  Bucky laughs, shoulders ducking in as he does.  “Do you need any extra hands?” Steve asks, “You need to get some sleep before tomorrow, I don’t want you up all night working on everything.”

 

“Nah, I’ve got plenty of people.  Sam’s helping with the wing, and it’s nearly done, regardless.  Friday and Jarvis are working on prepping a suit, so—not too shabby, actually.  How’s Fury?”

 

“Still pissed,” Steve says, shaking his head before he leans against Tony’s desk, “He wanted to send over his team now, have them keep an eye on us.”

 

“Tell him he could shove it where the sun don’t shine?”

 

Bucky looks up as Tony speaks, grinning at Steve, who’s trying not to do just that.  “In politer terms,” Steve says, and Tony makes an obnoxious noise, jostling him.

 

“Good for you, Cap.  Alright, Wilson 1.0, get your fine feathered ass on over here.”  Sam suits up again, frowning when the left wing sags still.  “All good,” Tony says, taking it back, “Drawing board it is.  Steve, you’re great company, but you’re in the way.”

 

“Hint taken,” Steve says, stepping away from his desk, “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

 

As soon as he’s gone—and really, Bucky should have called it—Sam says, “Nice to see you three getting along finally.”

 

“With this ass,” Tony says, “They better be nice to me.”

 

Bucky just kicks the back of one of his knees and yelps when Tony throws a wrench at him.

 

——

 

Though he’s expecting it, Tony isn’t ready for the nightmare when it comes.

 

The fact that he’s asleep, really, is astounding, but it’s like something’s clicked inside of him, suddenly made sense.  Bucky admitting that he wakes terrified less when Tony’s there had made him realize how few nightmares he’s had now that Bucky’s always within reaching distance.  It had never been like that with Pepper, never made him feel safe enough, but this, right now, makes him think he might be okay.

 

Tony Stark will _never_ be okay.

 

It’s a conglomeration of everything—inhaling and not finding air as he’d stared out at the black nothingness of space and _horror_ , of the knowledge of falling out of that wormhole even if he couldn’t remember it because his body could, and he always dreams of falling, falling, _falling_ , even if he’s just freefalling in a normal flight, testing out the suit, sometimes he still blacks out and wakes up because Jarvis is always louder when he thinks Tony might die, but Jarvis is dead and Friday isn’t the same, and—Tony wakes with something like a roar tripping out of his mouth.

 

It’s low, and it shakes through him, and he feels like he’s _dying_.

 

He can’t get out of the bed fast enough, trips and hits the nightstand so hard it’ll likely bruise him, and then he thuds to the floor because the bathroom is miles away, and he can’t _breathe_.

 

“Tony?” Bucky says into the darkness.

 

One of his hands closes over the arc reactor, which had stuttered out and _died_ when he needed it most, and he’d felt it careen to a halt the second he was through the wormhole, the second he could see the aliens and the impending war and he knew that it didn’t matter if he made it back through because his heart was gone, this heart he built for himself because he didn’t know how to use his own, human one anymore, it’s—

 

“Tony,” Bucky says in a way that yanks him back to Earth, back to humans, back to the way Bucky inhales, this loud, firm thing.  “Nope, stop that,” Bucky says, pulling his hand away from his chest.  He’d been twisting it without thinking, without realizing his brain was tripping toward Obadiah, the sour taste of his mouth and how he’d spat in Tony’s face before he took his heart out.  “Tony, it’s me,” Bucky says when Tony swings, trying to protect himself, “It’s James.  I’m here.”

 

“Where am I?” Tony gasps out in this awful, wheezing voice.

 

“Where do you think you are?” Bucky asks, but his voice is fuzzy like he’s fading into nothingness, the kind of nothingness that burns your feet and raises dunes in its wake, the kind of nothingness that he escaped into, plunging out of darkness into sand, and _god_ , there’s sand in his mouth, trying to drown him, trying to—

 

“Tony, _breathe_ ,” someone says.

 

He can’t, don’t they understand?  There’s sand in his throat, scraping it raw, and his skin is scorched from the sun, or maybe it’s blistering under the weight of the suit as it gives up, as Jarvis fizzles out, as his heart stutters into nothingness, into the horrors above, and he’d always dreamt of going to space, once told his father he wanted to be an astronaut, and it had been the only profession Howard hadn’t immediately hated because astronauts were heroes, and they were brilliant, but _space_ was terrifying, and Tony hates it, hates looking up at night and thinking about what it had been like to die up there.  He keeps dying over and over again, with sand in his mouth and water in his lungs and aliens plucking out his heart.

 

“Tony, look at me.”

 

Two hands curl around his face, and one of them is metal and _cold_ , and Tony presses into it, closing his eyes as he feels the warm body around him, limbs looping through his until he has no idea whether he’s human or not anymore.

 

“ _Breathe_ , Tony,” someone says, and it sounds like someone he knows.  There’s this loud, rushing noise, and Tony follows it up, up, up until silence settles around them, and he holds onto it, holds it in, and then it crashes, down, down— _down_.

 

“Hey,” Bucky says in this voice that’s both strong and scared.

 

Tony sags against him, just needs to be closer to him, needs to be _held_.

 

“I know,” Bucky whispers, wrapping his arms tight around him, fingers digging into his skin so hard it’s turning black and blue, but it’s real, and he loves him for knowing it’s what he needs.

 

“God _damn_ it,” Tony mutters into his shoulder.

 

Bucky tries not to laugh, but Tony still feels it vibrate through him.  “Something wrong?” Bucky asks.

 

“All of the things,” Tony mumbles, burrowing closer.

 

Bucky kisses his smile into Tony’s mess of hair and keeps breathing for him.

 

——

 

In the morning, Tony wakes up like he’s been electrocuted, and he doesn’t know where he is.

 

It’s dark, and he doesn’t recognize anything around him, can’t even see his hand when he lifts it to his face.  Everything is dark, and when he looks down, his chest is empty, a wicked scar tracing down his chest, the familiar whir and hum of the reactor gone.

 

“What,” Tony says, looking up, and there’s Obadiah, holding the reactor and looking down at him.

 

“I’m almost glad they didn’t kill you the first time,” he says, smirking.

 

“You’re dead,” Tony says.

 

“I was,” Obadiah says, turning the reactor in his hand, “I’m not.  Don’t you remember?  Cut this thing out of your chest, sealed it up, and handed it over to me?  Come now, _Anthony_.”

 

Tony blinks, and Obadiah is gone.  Howard is there, a tumbler in his hand.  “Drink this,” he says, and holds it out to Tony, “Swallow it like a man.”

 

Tony looks down again.  It doesn’t make sense.  His chest is _whole_ , skin stitched together in a raised scar that hurts like someone has reached in and twisted his heart between their bitter fingers.

 

“Dad, help,” he whispers, looking up.

 

He’s in the wormhole, looking out at the end of the world.

 

Bucky is startled awake by the scream, and he only sees a blur of Tony before he hears him hit the floor, this dull, angry thud.  He scrambles upright and tries to cross the bed before Tony can gain his feet, but then he’s gone, out of the room faster than Bucky has time to react.

 

Tony _runs_.

 

The last time he remembered running from a nightmare, he was six, and Howard hit him hard enough that he bit his lip and bled all over the floor.

 

It must still be early because there’s no one awake when he reaches the kitchen.  Or, at least, no one that he can coherently see.  He doesn’t even know where he’s going, but his mother’s sitting room used to be behind the kitchen, and it occurs to him suddenly that he has absolutely no idea where it—or he—is.

 

“Tony?” an unfamiliar voice says.

 

Tony turns abruptly, finds Steve sitting at the island, looking a little unsure.

 

Between one inhale and the next, Tony wakes up, a quick shake of his head, and his feet are on the ground, it’s almost summer of 2017, Obadiah is dead, his partner killed his father, and he’s _alive_.  The gentle hum of the reactor in his chest is proof of that.

 

“Oh,” Tony says, blinking, “I was just—coffee.”

 

He makes an aborted movement toward the coffee machine, but he’s unsteady, and he stumbles, quickly righting himself on the counter.

 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, and the scrape of his chair means comfort that Tony just can _not_ have right now.

 

“I literally went all the way downstairs first,” Bucky says, and Tony closes his eyes, grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white, “Why the hell did you come in here?”  He shakes his head, this little thing, and then Bucky’s right next to him, not giving him an option as he peels his fingers away from the counter and turns him into a hug, pressing warm, solid hands against Tony’s back to ground him.

 

“I didn’t know where I was,” Tony admits, and he hears Steve’s exhale rush out.

 

“Did you get any sleep?” Bucky asks, gently rubbing circles into his back.

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder, and Bucky doesn’t sigh, which just means he loves him even more, and really, he’s bordering on a midlife crisis.  “I just—” Tony says, shifting.  Bucky releases him, though he bumps him out of the way of the coffee maker and opens it to reveal tea.  “Heathens,” Tony mutters even as he opens one of the cabinets.

 

Somehow, it turns into a normal morning.  Bucky throws one nasty glare Steve’s way when he tries to pry, and though he goes to retort, Clint and Wanda show up, so he keeps it to himself.

 

It’s still early, barely dawn, when they suit up and find themselves in the quinjet again.  As promised, two different SHIELD jets join them in the air, and they don’t die, though it is another long, exhausting day.

 

In the end, it happens that Bucky catches Loki unawares while he’s busy fending off Clint and Wanda at the same time, and he blows out one of his knees.  Loki drops with this look of sheer surprise on his face, and then a bolt of lightning that, on a normal day, would fry a human into something resembling a potato chip, shatters through the sky and throws Loki several hundred feet through the air only to be caught, and subsequently _hurled_ , at the ground by Hulk.  Tony fires off a few rounds on his way by, Vision appears out of absolutely nowhere to float down next to Loki’s body and stands guard, and then it’s just a matter of tying up loose ends, really.

 

Bucky hates to think of it like that, _loose ends_ , but after Loki’s gone, the Kree who don’t immediately surrender are quickly taken care of.

 

Nat makes a comment about being hungry, Steve says he’s been craving greasy pizza for weeks, and Tony’s already on the phone before they’ve finished discussing where to go.

 

It feels different than all the other times, though, and Tony is itching to get out of there.  He’s bruised in places that aren’t physical, Friday’s putting together a list of names and families he can reach out to and offer whatever support they need, and the prospect of going back to the compound right now, with half of SHIELD, Steve’s righteous smile and stupid fucking shoulders, Vision’s voice, and _Wade_ , is easily the worst moment of his day.

 

And thus, he’s not entirely surprised when he turns to Bucky and says, “Wanna get out of here?”

 

“This state?” Bucky says it like he’s joking, “More than you know.”

 

“I have a house in Malibu,” Tony says, and Bucky pauses in reaching for another slice, slowly turning toward him.

 

“California?” he asks.

 

“I fucking hate New York,” Tony admits, and Bucky beams.

 

Really, he’s more surprised by what happens next than how warm and easy he feels at the idea of showing Bucky his _home_ because then Bucky leans forward, in front of all eight other Avengers, and kisses him.  It’s not a quick, chaste thing, either, but this lingering press of lips that hints at something more, something wicked.  Bucky’s mouth is curling into a grin when he pulls back, gaze flicking over Tony’s face.  “Yeah, I’d love that,” he says, and starts back for his pizza.

 

 _Shit_ , Tony’s brain says a second before he grabs at him, forgetting the slight sprain in one of his wrists as it curls around his jaw and holds him there, kisses him long and slow and this edge of something that’s chasing away his mental black and blues.

 

“A _hem_ ,” Clint says loudly.

 

Tony releases him slowly.

 

Thor throws a handful of napkins in the air in celebration when Bucky is blinking dazedly as he finally gets his slice of pizza.  Tony waits for a lewd comment from Wade, but when he looks over, his head is on Peter’s shoulder, sans mask, and his eyes are closed.  He thinks, if someone like Wade has learned to trust, it’s about time he did.

 

——

 

They leave that night.

 

Bucky has zero interest in being in New York any longer than he has to be, so he showers, changes, and drops by Steve’s room expecting to be yelled at, and instead getting, “I wish I could disappear.”  He’s on his bed, back resting against the headboard, and a sketchpad balanced on his knees.  Grant is curled up at his feet, though he looks up happily when Bucky comes in.

 

“You could,” Bucky says, leaning against the doorway, “Take Sharon to—Egypt, or something.”

 

“I can’t, Buck,” he says, and there’s that Captain America sigh, “When will you be back?”

 

Bucky intends to tell him that it’s likely to just be a couple days, but he finds himself saying, “A few weeks, maybe.  I’ll call, dad, don’t worry.”

 

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, “Take care of him, yeah?”

 

“Thought we were a bad idea,” Bucky says even as he straightens away from the doorway.

 

Steve shrugs one shoulder.  Bucky turns toward the hallway.  “Maybe you cancel the bad in each other out.”

 

“I’m going to leave before you take that back,” Bucky says, and Steve’s laugh follows him out into the hall.

 

Tony passes out on the flight to California, and Bucky almost doesn’t have the heart to wake him when they arrive in Malibu, but he knows carrying him to the car will cause so much more of an uproar, so he delivers a swift kick to the bottom of his seat when they’ve touched down before he gets up.  Tony jerks awake, already swinging, and Bucky dodges his fist as he shoulders on his jacket.

 

“Up and at ‘em, sonny boy,” Bucky says.

 

Tony groans loudly.

 

It’s late when they finally get into the car, and even later when Tony spreads his arms, exhaustion making them droop, and says, “Welcome to the house of the famous Iron Man.”

 

“I thought this thing sank to the ocean floor,” Bucky says, going around one of his arms.

 

Tony pouts, but follows him.  “It did.  Construction finished over the winter since we don’t get that abysmal thing called _snow_ out here.”

 

“I like snow, and I seem to recall quite a few afternoons spent out on the balcony watching it snow with you.”

 

“Lies and slander,” Tony says, making a beeline for the stairs, “I’ll show you around tomorrow, I’m gonna fall over.”

 

Bucky grins, dropping his bag on the floor before he knocks Tony’s knees out from under him, tosses him over his shoulder, and laughs when Tony yelps.  He must be truly tired, though, because he doesn’t protest, instead folds his arms to pillow his head against Bucky’s back, and he’s teetering toward falling asleep when Bucky hazards a guess, ends up in a bedroom, and dumps him on the bed.

 

“This thing is massive,” he says as he starts undoing Tony’s jeans.

 

“Are you stripping me?” Tony mumbles into the crook of his arm where it’s thrown over his face.

 

“In the morning, sunshine,” Bucky says, tugging his jeans off and tapping his thigh.  “Get into bed, I’ll be right back.”

 

“Better be,” Tony says even as he stretches.

 

He waits until Bucky’s left before he gets up, twisting out of his shirt even as he goes over to the window, fingers tapping out a seemingly nonsense rhythm.  “Good evening, sir,” Jarvis says softly.

 

“Stretch your legs, Jay, take a lap around the house while Friday finishes reinstalling security protocols.”

 

“And Sergeant Barnes, sir?” he asks.

 

Tony glances over at the closed bathroom door, smiling.  He can’t remember the last time it was this _easy_ to be with someone.  He’s always had to make so much effort, to concentrate on the way he words things and be wary of revealing too much of himself.  Bucky, though, feels like someone he doesn’t need to censor himself around.

 

“Access to all levels and rooms,” Tony says finally before walking away from the window, which dims as he leaves.

 

He climbs into bed after stepping out of his briefs, exhaling contentedly as the silk sheets settle around him.  He’s already drifting toward sleep when Bucky climbs in next to him, and he starts to shift closer to him when Bucky reaches over, quite nearly hauling him close.  “Okay, then,” Tony says even as he turns onto his side and curls close, trapping the reactor between them.  Bucky lays careful fingers against it, a quiet crash of metal in the dark, and Tony falls asleep without anything chasing him.

 

He wakes to sunlight, these big swaths of golden warmth pouring in through the windows.  Tony rolls and comes in contact with empty bed, though a quick, cursory glance finds Bucky on the other side of the bed, both arms beneath the pillow and on his front.  The ocean laps against the rocks outside, creating a soft lullaby that threatens to plunge Tony back into the depths of slumber, but Bucky is far more enticing.

 

He watches the play of morning light against his back, the curve of his ribs as he inhales and exhales, the dip of muscles in his lower back, where the sheets pool.

 

Tony grins and pushes upright, tossing the blankets toward the end of the bed.  Bucky stirs at the sudden breeze that creates, head shifting to face Tony, though he remains asleep, and it warms Tony to his core that Bucky trusts him enough to leave himself vulnerable like this.

 

The second he moves, though, knees settling on either side of him, he’s awake, and though it’s just a slow shift in his breaths, Tony can feel his body come alive.  He trails his mouth up his spine, kissing softly and occasionally tracing his tongue along a ridge of bone.  When he reaches the nape of his neck, he bites there, just a gentle scrape of teeth until he feels Bucky’s hips roll _just so_ against the mattress, and really, that’s all the green light that he needs.

 

He lets his mouth wander over to his human shoulder, kisses the spot he intends to bruise, and then bites him, corners of his mouth curling up into a smirk when Bucky groans low in his throat.  Tony licks the swollen skin when he’s done, making his way back down until he can bite at one of his hips, distracting him as his fingers skim up his thighs and squeeze his ass.

 

“What you doin’?” Bucky says, his words muffled by the pillow.

 

“Exploring,” Tony says, and scoots back one knee and then the other before he kisses down to his ass, tongue darting out.

 

“Tony,” Bucky says in a voice heavy with want.

 

Just to startle him, Tony nips at one of his cheeks, and Bucky jumps.  Tony laughs, burying his nose in his spine and breathing him in.

 

“Mere,” Bucky says, reaching back and tugging lightly at his hair.

 

Tony goes, lying on top of him, his half-hard cock resting in the curve of his back as he kisses his ear and down to his jaw.  “Favor?” Tony asks.

 

“As long as it involves you naked, anything you want,” Bucky says, turning enough that he can kiss Tony.

 

Tony bites his lip on his way back before he says, “I want to come with your cock in my ass.”

 

Before he’s even turned over onto his back, Bucky is rolling over on top of him, pressing him down into the bed with a hard, bruising kiss.  He traps Tony there, pins him down with one hand wrapped carefully around his right hip and the other finding his hand to lace their fingers together, metal and flesh.

 

When Bucky pulls back to kiss down his throat and toward his chest, Tony says, “I’ve got lube in the—” he breaks off with a moan as Bucky licks the edge of the reactor before laying a kiss on its center.  He leans up and away after that, pulling open the drawer on the nightstand and fumbling around until he finds a small bottle of lube.

 

“Mm, okay,” Tony says, watching him open it, “I’ve got a—thing.  We call them kinks in this day and age.”

 

“You’ll be 46 in three days,” Bucky informs him.

 

Tony blinks, his thoughts derailed.  “How did you know that?” he asks, and then his brain catches up, and he reaches over, snatching up Bucky’s wrist.

 

“Jarvis told me,” Bucky admits, “What?”

 

“Can you— _Jesus_.”  His blue eyes dart to Bucky’s metal hand, which is holding the lube, and Bucky bites back his grin.

 

“I want to hear you say it,” he says, and well, Tony’s mouth goes wicked at that, this feral grin that stirs something wild in Bucky’s blood and makes him lean down, rolling their hips together as he kisses Tony.

 

He presses the words into Bucky’s mouth, “I want your bionic fucking fingers in my ass, James.”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky groans, and sits back, carefully lubing his metal fingers.

 

Tony gasps at the first finger, hands clenching restlessly in the sheets, and Bucky makes it worse by wrapping his human fingers around Tony’s cock and jerking him slowly, just enough to keep him frustrated.

 

“Ready?” he asks, and Tony lifts his foot to press into Bucky’s thigh, toes kneading there.  He nods quickly, and Bucky slides in a second finger, shifting at the noise Tony makes.  He can actually _feel_ what he’s doing, the way Tony’s ass flutters and tightens around him, and that he can even get an idea of how hot it is, let alone the smaller details, is enough that Bucky needs to be closer to him, needs to show him how grateful he is to have him in his life.

 

Three fingers deep, and Tony’s whining, pushing at Bucky until he takes his hand back and quickly rolls on the condom that Tony throws at him.  Tony’s legs splay open, hard cock begging for something, anything, and Bucky leans down, kissing the base before he takes the head in his mouth, sucking lightly as he strokes himself.

 

“Nope,” Tony says tugging at his hair, “Time for that later, I need you.”

 

“As you wish,” Bucky says, and Tony starts to laugh when Bucky eases inside, hands curling around Tony’s hips to lift him off the bed a little so he can settle deeper.

 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Tony says, head tipped back and throat bared.

 

“Just James, but thanks for thinking so highly of me,” he says, and Tony kicks him, actually fucking kicks him.  “God, I love you,” Bucky says, leaning down and kissing the column of his throat.

 

Tony makes this strangled noise and says, “Honestly, me too.”  Bucky thinks, for a fraction of a second, that Tony’s making a joke, that he’s trying to run from these terrifying words again when he says, “I love you.”

 

Instead of beaming at him like he wants to, Bucky kisses Tony’s shoulder and eases out of him, rolling back in, kissing along his chest, pausing to bite his collarbone and mark him so that everyone knows Tony is his, his to love and to hold onto, and then, as he pushes up, Tony reaches for him, pulls him back down and kisses him like he’s just learned how to breathe.

 

One of Tony’s legs wiggles up enough that Bucky gets the hint and hooks an elbow under his knee, and then it’s just a matter of his toes kneading hard against his thigh, and he drops an arm under the other one, as well, spreading him wide and groaning at the keen Tony emits at the way that feels.

 

Bucky fucks him like this, one hand reaching up to press against his ribs as tries to chase after a heat that isn’t there.  “Fuck,” Tony echoes his sentiments, hips rolling up to meet Bucky’s, “I need—”

 

He doesn’t finish that sentence, but Bucky says, “Yeah, me too,” and slows.

 

He lets down Tony’s legs, not sure what he wants until Tony’s shoving at him with one thigh, and he goes, holding onto him as they roll, Tony adjusting once he’s on top, reaching back to pull one of Bucky’s legs up, holding onto his knee as he lifts into the air and sinks back down.

 

Bucky moans just as the sight of him, blue eyes dark and lashes fanning across his cheek, mouth swollen and wet, open in a pant.  Bucky curls metal fingers around his cock, bites his lip at the sound that pulls from Tony, and they come apart together.

 

Tony comes first, the cool metal of Bucky’s thumb pressing against the head of his cock and throwing him over the edge as he slams down against Bucky, stilling as white heat rolls through him.  Bucky tips him onto his back, fucks him right through it, breaks Tony’s moan into a sharp, quick shout as he presses his forehead against his shoulder and fills him, breaths gasping out hot against Tony’s skin.

 

“I’m fucking _hungry_ ,” is the first thing Tony says.

 

Bucky laughs loudly, burying it in Tony’s neck as he does, who just winds his arms around him and clings to him.  “How about this,” he says, lifting his head to kiss Tony, “I’ll make breakfast, and you rest up for round two.”

 

“Rest up!” Tony exclaims, “I will end you!”

 

“Of course you will, dear,” Bucky says and pushes upright, easing out of Tony, who tries to retort and just ends up letting out a soft noise, eyes fluttering closed.

 

They clean up before heading downstairs, dressed in each other’s clothes, Tony wearing Bucky’s sweats, and Bucky in the Zeppelin shirt he loves on Tony so much.  “Okay,” Bucky says when he opens the fridge and finds it full, “Who the hell did you pay to get all this?”

 

“I don’t food shop,” Tony says, “But I can’t remember who does it for me, either.”

 

“You’re an absolute queen,” Bucky accuses, but he still grabs the eggs.

 

“Duh,” Tony says, “But that’s why you love me.”  It comes out all in a rush, and Bucky’s quiet smile lets him know that yes, it’s one of the many reasons.

 

_If it gets hold of me,_

_Please be the saint to save me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there! I started this fic about three and a half weeks ago. Originally, this was a pairing that I wasn’t drawn to, though I thought they were cute. Lo and behold, Erin fell for them, ever my muse, and wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d written their epic. I had initially warned Erin this would be a 70k epic made up of 98% self-loathing and hatred. I fell a little short of that mark. HA. It was right around the 60k mark that I adjusted that statement, told her I was doing half trying to kill each other, half being in love, and here we are, over 100k later. Jeeznus.
> 
> A few notes. This, like, kind of references the _shake it out_ series? I miss Wade a lot? I may be potentially stepping in that direction soon? NO PROMISES. Sorry Google Translate sucks, oh well. Thank you to the moon and back to Erin for putting up with me, and for listening to me plan out all this nonsense. If you’re interested in my creative process, this fic has a tag on my tumblr: [this isn’t violence](http://sleeponrooftops.tumblr.com/tagged/this-isn't-violence). Mostly me just yelling. Next up: polyamorous Steve. No threesomes, I’m not doing that again, but more along the lines of Steve/everyone. Little ficlets, probably, of all the intimate moments he shares with his teammates. It’s going to be adorable, and literally 100% fluff. I miss space. Someone write me a space epic. _Please._
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it, and don’t forget to drop a comment if you did. They make me giggle at work, and a lot of the time, I tell my mom about how cool people think I am, and it’s just such a great confidence booster, so hey, I’d really appreciate to hear from you. Thank you!


End file.
